


The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames

by Precipice



Series: The Little Apartment Building series [3]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Because why the fuck not?, Horror, Humor, I REGRET NOTHING, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves.</p><p>The DIRECT sequel of 'The Little Apartment Building' .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Helen Vaughan - humanoid abomination and ambitious entrepreneur

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Prologue: Helen Vaughan – humanoid abomination and ambitious entrepreneur**  
  
_3rd of July, year 1934_  
_Arkham, Massachusetts, United States_  
  
_Finally got around to changing the bed sheets. Will never get used to doing my own washing – or doing any housework, to be honest! Rearranged the furniture in the living room – again. Still not happy with the result._  
  
_Went to ‘Lovett’ to check up on Dorian and Henry first thing in the morning. Promised myself to kill them if they mess things up. Lovett seems to be very pleased with their work, which is rather surprising – never expected of Henry Wotton to be able to count without twisting his fingers._  
  
_Went to the bank – Adler has transferred the money, as expected.  Thinking about starting another small business – the cabaret and the cake shop have so far been quite successful. Maybe Sonia (the modiste from Boston) would be interested?_  
  
_Went to  see Edward in his apartment. Was offered tea. Edward rejected my job offer. Should have expected that. Am rather worried about him – he wanted to talk about Jekyll, but suddenly switched the topic of conversation. Put him in his place, as usual._  
  
Helen Vaughan sighed and collapsed on the old sofa in the most melodramatical way she could manage while being in such a foul mood.   
  
There was no use – she was not cut out to be a homemaker, not after a lifetime of having maids, servants and later obedient husbands to take care of her every need. Her apartment was small and furnished in a tasteful, if impersonal way – just like the rest of the apartments rented out by the wizard Ephraim Waite, who was better known as Edward Derby, a poet, to the rest of the world. However, keeping her humble abode in a presentable condition had proved to be quite the challenge. Helen liked to think that she was far too busy to pay attention to the cobwebs in the rooms’ corners, and that was partially true – after all, she had so many interests to pursue and places to be and people to see… But for Pan’s sake, it had only taken her a couple of months to start making a decent living in this new century, on this largely unfamiliar continent, in this strange new universe, and she still couldn’t get the hang of using a vacuum cleaner!   
  
Helen sighed again and reached for the stack of letters on her coffee table. They had arrived yesterday, but she had been feeling far too sad, impatient and tired (in that order) to properly deal with them.   
  
Hmm… two invitations from Arkham’s most prominent socialite, with whom she had struck up a conversation in the theatre during the entr’acte about a month ago, if her memory served her correctly  – Helen put them aside for later inspection.   
  
The usual weekly letter from her old friend Adler who currently resided in New York, where she managed a cabaret that was actually owned by Helen herself – when sealing the deal one of Helen’s requirements was to know everything that happened in her establishment. She read it thoroughly and her mood improved considerably by the time she finished reading.  
  
Another post card from Count Dracula – this time from Peru – that informed her that he would be back from his voyage on the 20th of July and would be arriving in Arkham on the following day with his brides who missed her terribly, yadda yadda...  
  
At least the Count was unfazed by his sudden passage from one universe to another. Helen could not help but smirk as she stared at the elegant handwriting on the back of the card – there was no school like the old school, it seemed.      
  
A quick glance at the clock told her that she was running late already – she had so many errands to run.   
  
Helen caught herself singing quietly as she got dressed. Her first outfit for the day consisted of an elegant off-white dress with matching hat, shoes and handbag.   
  
Yes, she had woken up more than a year ago in an unfamiliar forest in the northwestern part of the United States after hanging herself in London in 1888; yes, she was still shaken up from the experience, from the memories of her death and from the knowledge that she could die again; yes, she suffered with a stiff neck from time to time and she often found herself wishing she had acted differently during her confrontation with Villiers. But this… this new world turned out to be quite similar from the one she used to inhabit in her previous life – it was like a song whose words she had forgotten but whose melody she knew by heart.   
  
And did she intend to play it.  
  
***  
  
Helen Vaughan had seen a great deal of odd things during her lifetime, but the sight of her old friends and renowned dandies Lord Henry Wotton and Mr. Dorian Gray wearing matching white aprons and learning the ins and outs of the confectionary art was certainly in her personal top ten. She watched from outside for a while, peering through the windows of pâtisserie ‘Lovett’– her other establishment besides the cabaret in New York.   
  
Benjamin Lovett was showing Dorian how to make roses out of the icing, while Henry was dealing with a customer. It was strange, seeing the pompous  nobleman smile sweetly at the middle-aged woman as he counted her change and entertained her with casual conversation while Dorian quickly prepared her order - six caramel éclairs in a paper bag.  
  
Helen slipped past the woman like a gust of wind, letting the door close of its own accord.     
  
“So how are my boys doing, Ben?”   
  
Mr. Lovett got out from behind the counter almost as swiftly. He was a short, plump man of sixty or so with a magnificent mustache, the last surviving descendant of a family that was a bit too well known for their cooking skills, especially on Fleet Street in London. Helen had been overjoyed to run into him during one of her regular trips to Boston, while Benjamin Lovett had been horrified – both by her recognizing him and by her being alive and well and grinning at his face.   
  
Anyway, it was all in the past now, just like his great aunt’s sins. Mr. Lovett held out a hand to shake hers – his nails were always immaculately trimmed, Helen had noticed, and also long and tough.  
  
“Quick learners, both of them, ma’am.” He spoke with a high-pitched, raspy voice.   
  
Another curious thing about Benjamin Lovett was that he never greeted her – no ‘good day’, no ‘good bye’, not even a measly ‘take care’.  
  
Helen nodded as she watched Dorian Gray resume his previous work. He seemed to feel her eyes on him, since he warned her without taking his off the cake:  
  
“I swear, Beaumont, if you do something to the icing, I will feed the leftovers to your wardrobe.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dorian!” Henry Wotton called from the kitchen, where he was currently washing his hands. “As if your heart would let you ruin even the most tattered of Mrs. Beaumont’s gowns!”  
  
“I will do so much more if she mocks my amazing skills.” Dorian nodded at the plate of palmiers on the display case’s top shelf. “Do you see those? Benjamin here says they are flawless, in shape, taste and consistency. I made the perfect palmiers on my very first try, and you can only be jealous, Beaumont.” He finished decorating the cake with white roses and looked up to meet Helen’s amused stare. “JEALOUS! So how are you today, Helen?”  
  
“Yes, how are you?” Henry Wotton brought a plate of fudge and placed it next to the palmiers. “And why are you here – to make sure we haven’t poisoned anybody, or… ?”  
  
Helen smirked conspiratively at Mr. Lovett.  
  
“Well, you’ve only been here for less than a week, so I doubt that your boss would let you work with the secret ingredients so soon… I’m joking, of course.” She added hurriedly, when both men flinched, their eyes darting to her and then to Benjamin Lovett. “Don’t be silly.”  
  
***  
  
After her short visit to the pâtisserie, Helen went home to change. She switched her white ensemble in favor of a plain yellow blouse and a long black skirt and coiled her long hair into a neat bun. After some consideration, she chose a wide-brim hat and a diamond brooch to add to her new look. Once she was ready, Helen stood before the mirror and practiced her facial expressions just in case – the curve of her mouth had to be just so, and the look in her eyes, and her posture, and the way she held the large handbag...  
  
Helen had taken her time to learn the language of her own body and face in order to make it whisper soothingly to the easily frightened humans. She did not quite understood why she had this effect on them, even when she was not actively trying to influence anybody, when she looked perfectly normal and human-like despite the practically blood red color of her hair and the unnaturally solid green color of her eyes.   
  
Once she stopped looking like Helen Vaughan and started resembling the Helen-Marie Beaumont her fake passport claimed she was, she went out again. She visited two banks – one to check her balance (Adler had transferred the usual monthly fee, and so had Lovett)  and to withdraw some money which she would later place in another bank, where she was known as Mary Raymond. She had to go change again, since Miss Mary Raymond was very different from the sophisticated Mrs. Beaumont – she wore glasses, garish lipstick and a headscarf whose pattern always matched that of her dress.  
  
Helen had been forced to do some unspeakable things to convince that young clerk from New York to issue the passports and deal with the paperwork, including but not limited to kidnapping, intoxication and death threats. It had been far less pleasant that her previous methods of quick seduction and gradual devastation, yet she could not deny that it was much more efficient. Of course, the man had finally snapped after three weeks of servicing her, choosing to throw himself out of the window before her astonished eyes. And all she had done to him that day was to suggest that he place a bet at the horse track and take her to watch the race! She guessed that her idea had been the last straw, but she had watched him carefully and had expected him to last at least a month.  
  
Helen had forgotten what fear and revulsion looked like on the faces of her adorable toys, but the whole incident only steeled her resolve. On the next day, she had found somebody else – a waiter from her favorite restaurant – to accompany her to the racetrack, place her bets, and later deliver the winnings to her. Two months later, the man had been stabbed in a bar fight – his incredible luck had drawn the unwanted attention of several people, which did not worry Helen in the least; after all, who would believe him that he had this friend who could influence the horses from the stands? Besides, Helen had already accumulated enough money to call Adler and make the woman an offer she could not refuse.   
  
***  
  
Edward Hyde’s apartment was even more impersonal than hers was. It had been torn apart not so very long ago (a nasty old witch had lived there for a short while and her presence had attracted the attention of a dangerous enemy) and the cost of the repairs had left Ephraim with very  little money to splurge on furniture. However, Helen noticed that, while the place was a mess (what with the old newspapers and half-read books scattered about every available surface and the giant house of cards built on the coffee table in the living room) it was a very clean mess – there was not a speck of dust anywhere, all the dishes were done and the only potted flower had been watered recently.  
  
She tried to smile at her friend, but she felt her face strain from the effort -  his foul mood seemed to be infectious.  
  
“I’m just saying that you might enjoy New York. Irene is a darling, and so are her girls.”  
  
Hyde did not look at her, preferring to stir his tea until some of it ended in the saucer.   
  
“You are bound to have a lot of fun. You’ll fight, you’ll drink, you’ll flirt…”  
  
There was a plate of biscuits on the table, no doubt a treat from Dorian. Helen took one and nibbled on it, thinking of what to say next. Unfortunately, she finished her snack before she could think of a good line.   
  
To hell with tact, she thought.  
  
“Edward, I can see that you’re not happy here.  But look at the situation this way – it’s a new country, a new century. There are so many opportunities…”  
  
“… for me to screw up again.”   
  
Helen reached out to touch his wrist, but Hyde jerked his hands as if to make her stay away. He had finally bought clothes that fit; where he had obtained the money for them was a mystery.  
  
”Jekyll was right to keep me in.” Hyde muttered and finally took a sip from his tea.  
  
Helen shook her head at his words.  
  
“Jekyll was a sick man, a hypocrite and a coward.”  
  
She tried to touch him again, this time on the shoulder. To her relief he let her, even raising his eyes to meet hers.   
  
“Helen, I’m thankful for what you’re trying to do. I truly am. But I need to figure this one on my own, just like you did.”  
  
“Yes, I did, and it was hard and unpleasant and humiliating. I had to resort to brutality and scheming and all kinds of… unladylike behavior.” Helen smirked mirthlessly, realizing she would have to spell it out for him. “I don’t want you to walk the same path – it would be like watching you walk towards your own grave, just like I watched before, when I was too stupid and selfish to know what was really happening.”  
  
Hyde blinked.  
  
“I think you’re overreacting.”  
  
Helen hissed, barely restraining herself from smacking his sour face.   
  
“Damnit, Edward, why can’t you just… accept my help?” She shook him by the shoulder, as if trying to wake him up. ”Dorian and Henry did, and they are no less prideful that you are…”  
  
Hyde actually had the gall to slap her hand away.  
  
“Dorian has bigger things on his mind right now, if you haven’t noticed. And Wotton is scared out of his wits. Scared, do you hear me? I expect him to blow his brains out the second he saves enough money to buy a gun…”  
  
Helen’s mouth opened and closed as she searched for words.  
  
“How can you say that?”  
  
“Think about it, Hel – Gray is rather calm about this whole ‘alternate universe’ thing, but why? He spends very little time in his apartment – I should know, I live next to the building’s only exit, I’m always inside and I have little else to do but listen to the building’s sounds. Dollface’s got something going on, mark my words – he’s found something to keep him grounded, to keep him stable. I highly doubt that he has found a new meaning in life as a baker.”  
  
Helen pursed her lips. She knew the reason behind Dorian’s strange absences - after all, she was the one who provided him with the addresses of all art galleries in Arkham – but she had not expected of Edward Hyde, of all people, to pay attention to the man’s comings and goings.  
  
“Wotton, on the other hand? Wotton’s like a survivor of a shipwreck. He’s lost his entire life – his family, his friends, his position, his possessions… everything he’s ever known and cared about.“  
  
“So have you! Which is precisely why I’m trying to help you. Help all of you.”  
  
“Help us? Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Hyde squinted at her, as if trying to catch her in a lie.  
  
“I think you’re lying – either to me or to yourself.”   
  
“What?!”  
  
“You’re not trying to help us, Helen. You’re trying to help yourself – not that I can blame you. You are, after all, partly human, and humans are selfish creatures. But that’s not all. You’re afraid, Helen, so very afraid – of loneliness, of isolation; and you’re tired of hiding behind masks and fake names, of always having to conceal your true nature and running away when it becomes apparent that you are not like the others...”  
  
Helen found herself drinking her tea in large gulps – her mouth felt like a desert. She waited for Hyde to finish what he had to say, before placing her cup on the table and standing up.   
  
“You can think whatever you like about me and my motives and I will not try to correct you. You can analyze my words, interpret my actions and judge my choices and I will not try to explain myself to you. You can  _hide_  in here for as long as you like and I will not mock you for it.”  
  
Hyde’s expression did not change, but he rose to his feet  when she headed out the door. Before slamming it shut, Helen thought she heard him apologize, or at least call her name, but staying in the same room with him for one more minute would have ended with one of them dead. Again.  
  
_Things to remember :_  
  
_Stay smart. Stay excellent. Stay true to yourself._  
  
_Don’t panic. Don’t make any rash decisions. Don’t be unsatisfied._  
  
_Don’t let anybody read this journal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to focus on Helen, since she didn't get the attention she deserves in 'TLAB', and there will definitely be more of her diary entries - she's fun to write.
> 
> The first and foremost thing I had to bear in mind while writing this was that she's half-human - her mother was an orphan girl used in a twisted experiment, and her father is the god Pan. This union resulted in the birth of a girl that was beautiful, but horrifying and who did unspeakable things to those foolish enough to get close to her that resulted in madness and a series of suicides, the last of which was her own. 
> 
> My pal Hokova on DeviantArt has often depicted Helen as a lonely being who feels isolated because of what she is. Her Helen seeks companionship - she seeks someone who is capable of understanding and accepting of her true nature and is in turn just as sincere, someone who is able to offer her what she needs, someone who is able to accept what she has to offer. This is, to put it simply, a brilliant interpretation, which I later found in Rosanne Rabinowitz's book 'Helen's Story'.
> 
> However, this fanfic takes place after she has been resurrected in another era and in a different universe, so I wondered what Helen would do with her experience if she got a second chance and better conditions. The answer appeared almost immediately - Helen would absolutely carpe the hell out of that diem. She would be quicker and smarter, far more cruel, at times bordering on actively malicious, and simultaneously far more careful and reserved. She learns to use her otherworldly beauty not just to lure her victims, but to control them. I'd also like to think that she was a very clever, very resourceful woman - after all, 'The Great God Pan' shows us that she's rich, and the idea of her being a capable businesswoman is more or less in the same vein as her being a sexually liberated female - both would be considered unnatural by norms of Victorian society.
> 
> I don't know how to accurately 'explain' Helen's personality, since she's so atypical and hard to describe - she possesses lot of feminine and masculine qualities that are not mutually exclusive, not when it comes to her. She's vain, but she's not afraid to get her hands dirty. She's an optimist, but she doesn't delude herself. She's capable of feeling the same emotions as any human, but she tries not to let them control her. She can be gentle and she can be cruel; she can be caring and protective or watch calmly as your sanity crumbles in front of her eyes. In other words, Helen can be everything- a man and a woman and a beast, not just in death but in life too.


	2. Morella - the eldritch cuckoo

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
 **Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
 **Chapter 1: Morella – the eldritch cuckoo**  
  
 _1934, July 5_  
  
 _Sleep – about 9 hours._  
 _Breakfast – 1 slice of bread with jam & some coffee with milk. _  
 _Lunch – 2 hard-boiled eggs, 1 tomato, 2 slices of bread._  
 _Dinner – 1 bowl of chicken soup._  
 _Other – 1 slice of chocolate cake, some cherries._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 2 hours 10 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful._  
  
 _I spent the afternoon with Ephraim in his apartment. He let me go through his books (useless), though he refused to let the small Shagoth(sp?) out of its jar. He treated me to some cake he bought from the neighbors’ cake shop (‘Lovett’, 34 Peabody Avenue)._  
  
 _I listened to him complain about the other tenants, but I do not think he means what he says. I think he is just bitter than none of them are suitable vessels for his soul._  
  
 _Ephraim is very passionate about his research, which leads me to believe that he is running out of time._  
  
 _He is somewhat arrogant and not handsome enough for my tastes; also, the way he treated his first daughter makes me doubt his parenting abilities. However, until I find somebody else to help me beget my next body, I will have to keep Ephraim close. That should be easy – he seems to be lonely and starved for attention._  
  
  
 _1934, July 6_  
  
 _Sleep –  about 10 hours._  
 _Breakfast – 2 pancakes with jam, some tea with sugar and lemon._  
 _Lunch – 1 bowl of tomato soup, 2 slices of bread, 1 apple._  
 _Dinner – 2 potatoes, fried, 2 apples._  
 _Other – 3 carrots, some Roquefort cheese._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 1 hour 35 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful, yet tiring; had to nap afterwards._  
  
 _I spent the afternoon with Ephraim in the garden. He complained about the previous tenants, but I still do not think he means what he says. I think he actually misses those people._  
  
 _The woman from the first floor (Helen Vaughan) eyed me oddly as she settled underneath the ash tree to read. She looks familiar, even though I am sure I have never met her before; when I asked Ephraim, he mentioned satyrs, which bothers me for some reason – as if I need to remember something, but I do not know what._  
  
  
 _1934, July 7_  
  
 _Sleep – about 7 hours._  
 _Breakfast – 2 apples with honey._  
 _Lunch – 1 bowl of tomato soup, 1 slice of bread._  
 _Dinner – 2 slices of bread with honey and butter._  
 _Other – warm milk with sugar._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 4 hours 35 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful._  
  
 _Ephraim introduced me to the man from the basement – Herbert West, morgue technician; he works on a chemical formula that is supposed to reanimate dead bodies. West was obviously enraged to know that Ephraim revealed so much to me – a complete stranger – but managed to keep his temper in check._  
  
 _I asked West how a chemical can reattach the soul to the body and the man gave me a strange look before telling me this was not the first time someone has asked him a similar question._  
  
  
 _1934, July 8_  
  
 _Sleep – about 4 hours._  
 _Breakfast – none._  
 _Lunch – 1 apple._  
 _Dinner – none._  
 _Other – 4 glasses of red wine._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 5 hours 15 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful; a useful side effect (Vaughan – satyr – Nodens); I will have to study the necessary conditions for it to occur._  
  
 _As of today, I am divorced. The face of Joseph Curwen when he learned what alimony means was priceless._  
  
Ephraim Waite’s apartment covered the entire third floor of the Crowninshield House – a spacious, well-lit place with elegantly sloped ceilings, furnished sensibly and with taste. Morella found herself impressed by how practical her new friend turned out to be. The strategically placed wood carvings on the walls doubled as talismans, and the tinctures were kept on a wine rack, if the pencil marks on the bottles’ labels were any indication; there were several pathetic attempts to emulate Yithian technology that could easily be hand-waved as eccentric sculptures; the hundreds of books all wore identical brown paper covers for the sake of discretion.  
  
Her host foolishly offered her to take a gander at his personal library, which Morella decided to interpret as an offer to go through his research notes. His discomfort at her seemingly random choice was obvious, but she chose to ignore him as she flipped through his notebook like a bored girl with a fashion magazine and lots of time to waste.   
  
After a while, Morella laughed her special laugh.  
  
“And you mean to tell me that your… that, um…“ she made an uncertain gesture.  
  
Ephraim’s expression was stony, but his voice was even and clear.  
  
“My deceased husband, Edward Derby.”   
  
“… that he actually believed all this nonsense? Even if he didn’t get to read your notes on the ritual, it’s still painfully clear that his role was that of a target, not of an active participant. And speaking of which, the ritual has nothing to do with – what did you tell him, exactly?”  
  
“I lied to Derby that this ritual would allow him to obtain knowledge and experience from different aeons and worlds.” Ephraim waved his hand dramatically. “Ethereal projection, he liked to call it.”  
  
Morella laughed again, throwing her head back so that her jade earrings sparkled just so, drawing the man’s attention to her long neck.    
  
“Ethereal proje… By hypnotizing him, thus putting him under your complete control, and then reciting Aklo until his ears rang and his soul became loose enough for you to draw it out of his body and place it in yours?! I’m not very fluent, but I can swear at least one of the words you’ve transcribed here means ‘exchange’.” She gently tapped the page with her nail.   
  
Ephraim  had stood up to cut two slices from the chocolate cake that waited on the table. He paused and smirked, his knife halfway through the intricate decorations made from the icing.  
  
“Edward Derby spoke French perfectly, but I can assure you, he never had the chance to learn Aklo.”   
  
Morella grinned viciously.   
  
“You mean, you never  _gave_  him the chance to learn Aklo?”   
  
***  
  
“… and yes, they might be refined gentlemen of noble birth, but that doesn’t make it okay for them to comment on my jacket. What do they even know about today’s fashion? They arrived here from Victorian London a month ago. A month! That Wotton ponce is still afraid of modern cars! When I told him about the Great War, he laughed and told me to stop pulling his leg! Listen here,  _old chap_ , if I ever decide to pull your leg, it will be to fling you out of the window!”  
  
Morella watched impassively as Ephraim stabbed his slice of the cake as if the pastry had wronged him somehow.  
  
“Maybe he has trouble coping with the sudden change.” She suggested offhandedly. “I know I did for a while.”  
  
Ephraim pretended not to hear her.  
  
“And don’t get me started on that Dorian fellow! A new century, in a new country, in another freaking  _universe_ , if my sources are right about that, and  _nothing_  is worthy of his interest, nothing is important enough to attract his attention…”  
  
“His cake is pretty good, though.”  
  
“You should try his palmiers. Those are simply divine.”  
  
They ate their respective slices of cake in silence, savoring each bite. Morella could not help but wonder about the strangeness of the situation – people did not simply cross from one universe to another. Something was afoot.  
  
After a while, she spoke up:  
  
“At least they don’t cause you any trouble.”  
  
“They will, if I keep eating them.”  
  
“I meant your tenants, not the desserts.”  
  
That prompted Ephraim to continue his rant, but in a quieter, less agitated manner.  
  
“The one I’m really worried about is the guy from the first floor – Edward Hyde.”  
  
Morella tried to recall the man’s face.  
  
“He arrived with Gray and Wotton, didn’t he? From Victorian London, I mean.”  
  
Ephraim nodded.  
  
“Yes, he did. But let’s just say that I’m glad your floor neighbors are those two guys. They can be exasperating at times, but at least they don’t… they are… they act like proper gentlemen.”  
  
“And this Hyde person doesn’t?”  
  
Her landlord finished his cake and began playing with the leftover crumbs, pushing them around the place with his fork.  
  
“Well, he acts like other people only exist to entertain him and he doesn’t care about their opinions and sensibilities… neither do I, in fact, but there’s a line between being cold and being… crass.”   
  
“Crass?”  
  
“Mr. Hyde’s idea of entertainment is not what we might call reputable.”  
  
Morella waited for him to say something else, but he did not. She finished her own slice and stood up, taking their plates to the sink.  
  
“May I ask what he did to make you think so badly of him?” she asked while washing the knife he had used to cut the cake.  
  
Ephraim seemed unwilling to talk at first, but he quickly caved in when Morella returned to her chair and looked expectantly at him.  
  
“I’m pretty sure he frequents the gambling dens in town – I can’t explain where else his money might come from. Gray and Wotton don’t earn enough to cover his expenses as well, and I know for a fact that he refuses Helen’s help – she lives on the same floor as Hyde, by the way…”  
  
“Even if he does gamble, what does it matter to you? Do you not gamble your own life in exchange for several more decades? We all risk what we have in hopes of gaining something more.”  
  
“That’s true; but I’m more concerned that he might attract the wrong kind of attention to himself – by losing more money than he has, or by attempting to trick the wrong people... What if he gets himself killed over a couple of dollars? Or worse, what if  _he_  kills someone over a couple of dollars?”  
  
Morella rolled her eyes in exasperation.  
  
“I’m going to ask you again – what. Does it matter. To you?”   
  
Ephraim opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off quickly:  
  
“Can we change the topic, please? It’s getting on my nerves… ”  
  
She sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead for good measure. Ephraim pursed his lips for a second.   
  
“Alright. What would you like to talk about?”  
  
“Well... about that Shoggoth…”  
  
***  
  
From the moment she first laid eyes on her, Morella had decided that she did not like Helen Vaughan at all.   
  
There was an unwholesome quality about the red-haired woman who for some awful reason was about as familiar as the dead body of an old acquaintance – was it something about the delicate structure of her face, or the unnatural fluidity of her movements? Morella did not know and it made her feel a bit guilty for wanting to claw the woman’s bright green eyes out every time they ran into each other on the stairs or in the corridors of Crowninshield House. So understandably, she did not dare complain when Ephraim led her to the only bench in his garden, which unfortunately was not very far away from the ash tree where Vaughan lay sprawled unceremoniously on the grass, apparently unconcerned about the state of her dress, in a company of a bottle of apple cider and a book.   
  
To Ephraim’s credit, he carefully wiped the bench with his handkerchief before letting Morella sit. She remembered to smile sweetly at his gesture. Her mind was still fuzzy from her daily preparations. The All-Mother’s presence had been especially hard to evoke today, and even harder to banish; Morella’s organs seemed to twitch impatiently beneath her ribs and under her skull.   
  
They talked very little, preferring to enjoy the cool shade under the trees and the chirping of the various birds that lived in their crowns. Morella could not help but glance from time to time at Vaughan, who was completely immersed in her book. She noticed the way several butterflies circled around her head in something akin to frenzy and was surprised to see a small snake calmly slither over the woman’s ankle as if it was just another root in its way.   
  
Finally, she broke down and asked Ephraim about the strange woman as quietly as she could.  
  
“Satyrs were involved at some point, I think.” That was all he said before closing his mouth in a way that clearly stated that he did not dare say anything else, at least not while the red-head was still around.  
  
Something flickered in Morella’s hazy mind, but she was too distracted to investigate the ‘spark’. Perhaps later in the evening. Or tomorrow morning.  
  
“Satyrs don’t exist.” She whispered, hoping that Helen would react in some way from her spot under the ash tree, but she did not.   
  
***  
  
“Believe it or not, they were even more annoying than Gray and Wotton.”  
  
“I have heard horrible stories about the ghouls’ feeding habits. Bones everywhere, and they never fix the disturbed graves.”  
  
“The one I had here was worse – he used his mouth for talking, rather than for gnawing.”   
  
“A cheeky one, wasn’t he?”  
  
“He didn’t know when to shut up. Don’t get me wrong, he was… is ridiculously talented, I’m proud to own some of his paintings; but let’s just say that when he went back to the Dreamlands, I did not beg him to stay.”  
  
“But didn’t you say that his roommate was nice?”  
  
“Oh yes, he was a joy to have around, if you didn’t mind all the cats.”  
  
“Oh dear…”  
  
“At least Herbert stayed… oh, which reminds me, I’ll have to introduce you!”   
  
“Herbert? You mean the gentleman in the basement?”  
  
“He’s a man of science; I think you’ll appreciate the contrast.”  
  
***  
  
Morella opened her eyes and breathed in. The air was cool and odorless, just like her body, just like her poor, exhausted body with its brittle bones and exhausted muscles. She was in her apartment, alone and safe behind locked doors and closed windows. She did not know whether she was sitting on the floor of the living room, or lying on the bed, or having a soak in the bathtub – her body became numb every time she entered this trance-like state.   
  
Morella closed her eyes and whispered the names of the All-Mother and those of her Thousand Young. She could feel them in her throat and taste them with her tongue, she could smell them when she opened her mouth – old names, forgotten names, forbidden names, accursed names.  
  
Morella opened her eyes again.   
  
The All-Mother was there – the one who walked freely in the lands of dream and in the waking world; the one whose shadow was encased in the flesh and embedded in the soul. The All-Mother who ate her children and gave birth to them anew, the All-Mother who was the echo of the endless rhythm of reincarnation – and now she was there. Her presence sent Morella’s last remaining thoughts scurrying like frightened spiders and tore the intricate cobweb of her conscious mind to pieces. She was blinded, deafened, numb, filled to the brim with the secret knowledge – that the wheel of life and death could be rigged.  
  
The All-Mother spoke. Later, Morella would remember only a fragment of her words – a single colored shard from a titanic stained-glass window.  
  
 _NATURE IS CRUEL, REALITY IS STRANGE, CHANGE IS CONSTANT._  
  
Morella began her preparations.   
  
***  
  
She tore her soul off and pinned it back again, like a brooch that was passed from mother to daughter; she forbade her womb to shelter life that was not her own; she described the kind of flesh it should be able to carry and feed for nine months.  
  
The All-Mother watched.   
  
***  
  
Once the spiders came out of their hidey-holes and repaired the cobweb, Morella noticed the new set of lines – a reignited spark, like a candle in the darkest corners of her mind, where the bad memories lay. She peered into the darkness…  
  
Satyrs.   
  
Pan. Satyrs. Leng. Two worlds. Leng. Collision.   
  
Satyrs. Pan.   
  
Nodens. Two worlds. Cross. Nodens. Breeding. Leng. Celts, Greeks, Romans.   
  
Nodens.   
  
Morella smiled faintly.   
  
The All-Mother had a Thousand Young, and she knew all their names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morella is the titular character of Edgar Allan Poe's short story. 
> 
> Morella's implied to be an occultist who falls ill during her pregnancy. She dies while giving birth, the child seems to be stillborn, and yet when the mother breathes her last breath, the baby girl seems to come to life. Years pass, and the little girl looks and acts more and more like her mother. Fearful, the father takes her to be baptized and chooses to name her Morella (the girl's ten at the time, btw. Yup, it's a weird story.). When he calls her that, the girl answers 'I am here!' and promptly falls dead. When she is to be buried in the tomb next to her mother, however, they discover that her mother's body is missing. 
> 
> The way I understand it, either the old Morella turned into a vampire (something mentioned on Wikipedia and a far too boring explanation), or she has discovered a way to willfully transfer her soul and mind into her stillborn baby's body while leaving her old body to die, but something went wrong during the baptism.
> 
> ***
> 
> The fantastic Hokova is the one who pointed out to me the similarities between Ephraim Waite (Lovecraft's 'The Thing on the Doorstep') and Morella. 
> 
> As you can see, she gave me an inch and I took a mile. XD
> 
> ***
> 
> Okay, serious character discussion time. 
> 
> I kept my weird little headcanon (Morella giving birth to her own new body and transferring her soul into it immediately after giving birth to it, like an eldritch cuckoo) and expanded it even further.
> 
> In this fanfic, Morella's main goal so far is to find a suitable husband/father. She used to be married to Joseph Curwen for about a year before moving into Ephraim's apartment building - if you've read Lovecraft's 'Case of Charles Dexter Ward', you might guess why their marriage failed. ;P Her time is running out and she knows she needs to get hitched and get down to begetting her next body as soon as possible, if she's still up for this whole reincarnation thingy... Ugh, I can write so much about her - about her past and her family and her interests, but I'll cover that in the next Morella chapter. 
> 
> ***  
> Figuring out the characters' writing styles is loads of fun, btw. :D


	3. Herbert West - morgue technician (and reanimator)

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Chapter 2: Herbert West – morgue technician (and reanimator)**  
  
07/03/1934  
  
_Solution – 0.250 L_  
_Blood –  0.500 L_  
_Subject – white male, 46 yrs, 132 lbs, 5’8”, small intestine cancer, malnourished._  
  
_29 minutes after the transfusion, the subject showed symptoms of life – weak pulse, weak breathing, responsive pupils, twitching fingers of the left hand._  
  
_18 minutes later, all symptoms ceased._  
  
_1 injection of the solution’s antidote, just in case._  
  
_***_  
  
07/04/1934  
  
_Solution – 0.350 L_  
_Blood –  0.700 L_  
_Subject – white male, 54 yrs, 205 lbs, 6’1”, myocardial infarction._  
  
_34 minutes after the transfusion, the subject showed symptoms of life – weak pulse, raspy breathing, responsive pupils, twitching fingers of the left and right hands._  
  
_10 minutes later, all symptoms ceased._  
  
_1 injection of the solution’s antidote, just in case._  
  
_***_  
  
07/05/1934  
  
_Solution – 0.100 L_  
_Blood –  0.200 L_  
_Subject – white female, 8 yrs, 50 lbs, 4’2”, strangulation._  
  
_17 minutes after the transfusion, the subject showed symptoms of life – quickened pulse, raspy breathing, responsive pupils, twitching fingers of the right hand, twitching muscles on both legs, gurgling sounds in throat._  
  
_5 minutes later, all symptoms ceased._  
  
_1 injection of the solution’s antidote, just in case._  
  
_1 injection of embalming solution._  
  
_Note to self – mark the grave; resume work with the subject once the method of reanimation is perfected._  
  
_***_  
  
07/06/1934  
  
_Day off._  
  
_I spoke with A.F. He suggested that I should do as he had done – sew together body parts and organs from several subjects._  
  
_I remembered a conversation I had with W.W. several months ago, regarding the impossibility of reanimating someone without their ‘soul’._  
  
_Note to self – look into the subject of ‘souls’._  
  
_Note to self – talk to Ephraim Waite, ask for tips._  
  
_Note to self – DON’T tell Ephraim Waite anything._  
  
_***_  
  
07/07/1934  
  
_No experiments today._  
  
_I got in touch with A.F.’s roommate (C.W.) and asked her to arrange a small incident, pref. involving people who would not be missed or mourned._  
  
_The meeting was v. unnerving._  
  
_H.V. was unfortunate enough to say hello, and my response was to tell her to mind her own business._  
  
_Note to self – be aware that H.V. might take revenge._  
  
_Note to self – talk to the newest tenant, M. Don’t elaborate. Keep it short. Maybe over a cup of tea._  
  
_Note to self – buy tea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and straight to the point. 
> 
> Dr. West doesn't approve of people looking over his shoulder while he works, so no narration here.


	4. Helen Vaughan - scary and caring

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Chapter 3: Helen Vaughan – scary and caring**  
  
_6th  of July, year 1934_  
_Arkham, Massachusetts, United States_  
  
_Saw Ephraim and the new girl – Morella or something like that – walking in the garden and conversing pleasantly. Ephraim thinks he is being discreet. How cute._  
  
_Do not really like the new girl. She has something on her mind – have lured enough men to their deaths to recognize the signs in others._  
  
_Went through Wilbur’s belongings again. Hope he does not notice when he comes back._  
  
_Which reminds me – things to ask Will when he comes back:_  
_\- where were you?_  
_\- what took you so long?_  
_\- my old friends (Dorian, Henry, Edward, the Count) here – why exactly?_  
_\- Lovett and Adler – aged; while the others have not – why?_  
_\- Wales – holiday?_  
  
  
_7th of July, year 1934_  
_Arkham, Massachusetts, United States_  
  
_Ran into Herbert – the good doctor seemed irked. Asked him what bothered him so much and was told to mind my own business. The nerve of that man! I hope his disgusting little experiments fail._  
  
_Went out for an evening walk with Henry. Had a nice long chat. Edward was right – the man is a wreck, but he’s holding up. Shouldn’t come as a surprise – Henry’s not a young man anymore and adventures tend to wear him down._  
  
_Speaking of Edward, Henry tells me he and Dorian went out for a walk earlier in the evening. How peculiar._  
  
  
The full-length mirror was one of the first things Helen Vaughan had bought after her unexpected arrival in the States.   
  
It usually stood in the corner of her bedroom, covered with a piece of yellow silk to protect it from dust and curious eyes. The frame was perfectly ordinary, made from cherry wood, and for a while, the mirror managed to fit right in with the rest of the furniture.   
  
For a while.  
  
Once the piece of silk was put away, it immediately became obvious that the mirror was more or less ruined - its surface was slightly distorted and covered with a sheen of mucus. The defects had developed gradually and Helen had not really noticed them until the mirror began showing nonexistent colors and reflecting the light in odd angles. By then, it had been too late to do anything to salvage it, but too early to seek a replacement.  
  
Helen Vaughan stood in front of the mirror with her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Her long hair fell down her back like a waterfall of blood. She was naked.   
  
Helen’s bedroom was her sanctuary – the only place in Arkham where she felt completely safe and comfortable. The curtains were drawn closed in order to let as little light as possible, and the windows and the door were locked and bolted. The floor and some of the furniture were covered with cotton sheets - just in case. A bucket of soapy water and a mop were waiting nearby.   
  
Hopefully, she would not have to throw out the sheets or use the mop after she finished.  
  
Helen concentrated on her breathing – in, out, in, out. She stretched herself, raising her arms and arching her back until her bones popped.   
  
And then she let go.  
  
_Human – beast – male – female – flesh – soul – life._    
  
Constantly changing. Indescribably diverse. Saturated with sensations. Eternal.   
  
Helen’s human appearance melted, shifting into other forms and shapes – all of which were her own, all of which were familiar. Hair and fur and scales and feathers and skin and horns and hoofs and wings and paws and tentacles and fins and tails and beaks and teeth and claws – all  _Helen_. Blood and slime and bile and saliva and sweat – all  _Helen_. Red and black and yellow and brown and blue and green and gray; smooth and rough and soft and hard and dry and moist and cold and warm and big and small and much and less and many and little and none and all -  _Helen_.    
  
She relished the sudden influx of information as her senses multiplied a hundredfold – sounds, shapes, colors, smells, textures. Standing on the edge between the realms, now she could see the fruit of their union reflected in the mirror – a child of madness and instinct, born of mortal flesh and divine will. She enjoyed immensely these moments of freedom and release, when she could be herself – all of herself – instead of hiding her true face and subduing her desires as she made her way through the fragile, unforgiving world of humans.    
  
***  
  
There had been a time when she did not care – a lifetime ago, in fact; like an idle hunter in search for worthy prey, she had roamed the forests and fields of Wales, before moving onto the streets and halls of London, Florence and Buenos Aires. She had seduced and bedded (and even wedded) several men while enthralling many others with her beauty and subsequently subjugating them to her will. She had used and abused them, she had scared and scarred them, and she had always been satisfied with herself, if not outright happy. Of course, the feelings of loneliness and isolation had been unavoidable, and not even the presence of like-minded (two-faced, some would call them) humans could battle the consequences of personifying a form of duality that embraced truths from beyond the waking world.   
  
It had been precisely that inherent sadness which ultimately sent her to an early grave, in the form of an all-too-inquisitive gentleman and a hanging noose. In a way, Helen had always known that she would not last long among her mother’s kind; still, she had taken great care to cover her tracks, changing names and houses and cities like a woman changing her hats and clothes.   
  
Hope was not a foreign word to Helen Vaughan. She had hoped and she had dreamed, just like any human would; what for, she could not be certain, but the idea of a companion, of an equal, had always been there, like a jewel she could not afford to wear but that was too pretty to part with.  
  
Now, everything was different – not just the era and the country. The woman who hanged herself in London had been a dark-haired, olive-skinned temptress. The one who stood naked in a small bedroom in Massachusetts had the pale skin of someone who spent far too much time indoors and bright red locks that reminded Helen of her first prey, Rachel, and more specifically, of Rachel’s soft hair and pure blood. The dark woman had feasted and sung and danced; the red woman fasted and whispered and crept by. The dark woman had been  a traveler without a map and no destination in mind; the red woman was a creature with a purpose – to survive and grow and exist in spite of everything and everyone.  
  
***  
  
Helen took her time, experiencing everything she possibly could while in her truest form –  she delighted in the heady smells emanating from her body and the lovely noises it produced, she reveled in the sight of her flesh shifting and twisting into enchanting shapes.   
  
She was beautiful. She was whole. She was alive.   
  
And if only she could see all this written on the besotted face of a certain other half-human being, rather than in the dull depths of the mirror…   
  
***  
  
As a whole, this went much, much better than the last time.  
  
Helen opened all windows in her apartment and pulled the curtains to let the sunlight and the fresh summer air cleanse the surfaces. She carefully folded the sheets and placed them in the chest next to her bed – she was going to use them again very soon. The soapy water did not go to waste, either – the kitchen floor could always use a scrub.  
   
A quick shower and a plate of roasted mushrooms later, Helen unlocked the door of the spare bedroom, where Wilbur Whateley had left his belongings before leaving to ‘do some chores’, as he had put it.  
  
Not that he had many belongings – several antique books, several dozens folders containing encrypted notes and baffling sketches, a hand-made easel, far too many maps and star charts and far too little clothes, most of which had been sewn by hand. Helen had already read whatever she could from the books, despite her meager knowledge of Latin, and she had gone through his folders and charts numerous times. She half wished she had bothered to ask him about his work while he was still in Arkham, but that would have caused him to ramble about magic and Aklo and ley lines for hours – a time that could have been (and, in fact, had been) better spend doing various other things.  
  
Helen unfolded one of Wilbur’s shirts, briefly pressing it to her face. It smelled of soap and the dried lavender she had placed inside the wardrobe – he had washed his clothes before moving in with her; before that, he had occupied the apartment above hers.   
  
She traced the shirt’s seams with her fingers. She had to admit, he had a steady hand.  
  
Helen went through the rest of his clothes, but ultimately decided on the first shirt she had picked. She made sure to place everything back the way it was – the way Wilbur had left it – and carefully locked the door. Afterwards she went back to her own bedroom and put the shirt on the bed, on the spot where her nightgowns usually lay.  
  
***  
  
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Lord Henry Wotton twirled his cane in a manner more appropriate for a small boy, rather than a sophisticated English gentleman. “Having a nice heart-to-heart chat, I mean.”  
  
“Indeed, it has.” Helen murmured, gently squeezing his elbow. “And we have so much to talk about.”  
  
So far, her evening had been very pleasant – the weather was nice, her new shoes were yet to give her blisters, the park was devoid of young couples and screaming children, and Henry seemed to be perfectly accepting of her half-human descent, of which he had only learned less than a month ago.   
  
Helen could safely guess that Edward Hyde had not told Henry about her involvement in the West End Horrors back in London in 1888. Not that it mattered anymore – all those incidents (rapes, Wilbur had called them) were behind her now.   
  
Incidents – inexperienced, almost desperate fumblings that had ultimately cost her her life.  
  
Henry spotted an empty bench and asked her if she would like to sit down for a couple of minutes. Helen nodded briskly, a bit startled by the sound of his voice.   
  
She told herself to stop dwelling over her old sins – their long shadows could no longer reach her.  
  
Once they made themselves comfortable, she opened her mouth, not quite sure how to begin, but Henry started talking almost immediately.   
  
“I wanted to ask you… about the building which we both inhabit.”   
  
Helen held her breath.   
  
“What about it?” she asked rather bluntly.  
  
Henry was smiling in that politely puzzled way that used to infuriate his ‘enemies’, as he liked to call them, during their regular verbal spars back in the pubs and clubs of London.  
  
“Well, it’s very odd – but in a nice way, mind you. When you first told me about it, I did not expect to find decently furnished apartments and carpeted corridors.”   
  
Helen suppressed a relieved sigh. She had immediately thought of all the little details concerning Crowninshield House of which Henry, Dorian and Edward were not aware yet – small things, like Herbert’s ‘experiments’, and Ephraim’s ‘husband’, and the White bitch debacle...  
  
“We used to have some rats, but they were taken care of.” She tried not to grin at his disgusted expression. “But otherwise, it’s a very nice place.”  
  
Henry stroked his goatee in an attempt to cover what Helen already knew – that he was deathly afraid of mice.  
  
“The entire building reminds me of… of some of the old mansions in London – in fact, it greatly resembles one of your houses, the one on Ashley Street that you bought along with the furniture and the carriages.”  
  
“As far as I know, Edward Derby did the same thing, more or less.”  
  
“The garden is a bit on the unkempt side,  but I suppose our charming landlord can’t be bothered to take better care of it.”  
  
Helen smirked. Henry genuinely believed that Ephraim’s sour demeanor was just a pose, and that amused her to no end.  
  
“You don’t know the half of it.” She began, in a playfully conspirative tone. ”Ephraim claims that his garden is capable of driving honest men insane.”  
  
Henry furrowed his brow.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Oh yes, he complains about almost everything, but when it comes to the garden, he’s being simply ridiculous – either he saw a water snake in the fountain, or the insects are unnaturally vicious, or he heard the frogs croak in foreboding unison...”  
  
“Uh, Helen…”  
  
“I think he simply wants to save money, so he complains about it and mows it twice a month and ignores the neighbors’ nasty stares…”  
  
“Why did you call Mr. Derby ‘Ephraim’? I thought his name was Edward.”  
  
Helen paused and pretended to clear her throat.   
  
She really, really wanted to kick herself.   
  
Oh well, time to think fast.  
  
“Ephraim… is just something that stuck.”   
  
That was more or less true.  
  
“Like a nickname?”  
  
“More like a… like an inside joke.”   
  
Helen could have explained to Henry that Ephraim was actually the corrupted soul of an old wizard with a penchant for possessing the bodies of clever and weak-willed young men.   
  
She could have, but she did not want to. It was not her story to tell.  
  
“Very few people use it, though. I suggest you continue calling him Derby; otherwise he might get antsy. And you will not like him when he’s antsy.”  
  
***  
  
The sun had set hours ago and the sky above the trees was dotted with stars, yet they were still sitting on the bench. Their voices echoed in the empty park, bothering the owls and the night guard patrolling the paths.  
  
“But why do you even want to go back?” Helen sounded bewildered.   
  
Truth to be told, she was not surprised in the least. Of course Henry Wotton would want to go back to London! He was the only one among them with a proper home and a proper family and proper friends.   
  
“I need to know, Helen. This is far too strange… not to mention convoluted! I could not believe my ears when you first explained it to me, and I still have my doubts – I fear I might go insane if I simply think too hard about it; provided, of course, that I’m not raving mad already and having this conversation with a wall in Bedlam…”   
  
Henry jumped on his feet and began pacing in front of the bench. His cane lay forgotten on the ground, where he had dropped it half an hour ago without noticing.  
  
“An alternate universe? A most interesting concept. You and Dorian and Mr. Hyde coming back from the dead? I can convince myself that this is all perfectly normal – after all, a new world means new rules, does it not? Your hair being bright red instead of the familiar exotic black? There’s dye for that.”  
  
Helen forced herself to laugh, but she was grateful that the faint light coming from the lampposts did not allow Henry to see her annoyed expression clearly.    
  
“But then I started working in this marvelous little cake shop, where I met a man named Benjamin Lovett, who is sixty-five years old and who claims to have met you for the first time when he was eighteen and working in a pub on Queer Street. Riddle me this, Mrs. Beaumont – how is that even possible?”  
  
Helen had to turn her head away from him to roll her eyes. He had been thinking! She hated it when men tried to think – they usually ended up making a great big mess of things.   
Henry returned to his seat next to her and picked up his cane.    
  
“I will go back to England and learn what happened to Lord Henry Wotton, a gentleman from the late XIX century. Something’s amiss, and I intend to find out what.”  
  
Helen fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. When she spoke, she was practically hissing at him.  
  
“Henry, for all we know, you might have never even existed in this universe before you appeared on the deck of Count Dracula’s ship. Or you might have – as Lady Henriette Wotton, who might be well into her eighties and senile or who might have died in a fire twenty years ago.”   
  
Henry stammered at the thought of Lady Henriette.  
  
“Well, I… I guess that is a possibility…”  
  
“The possibilities are  _endless_ , you daft fool!”   
  
The man flinched like a kicked poodle and Helen immediately regretted her sharp tone.   
  
She had to remind herself that Henry Wotton was not Edward Hyde. Hyde gave as good as he got, regardless of the circumstances. Wotton, on the other hand, was a typical human being – smart, frail and fearful.   
  
“What I’m trying to say is, you exist here and now. This is where you belong, this is where Dorian and Hyde and the Count belong.”   
  
An owl screeched somewhere above their heads, causing Henry to jump up in fright. Helen ignored the vile sound – she had a point to get across.  
  
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Henry Wotton?”  
  
_Things to remember:_  
  
_They are alive, here and now. They all belong with me. They all belong to me._  
  
_They are mine. All mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a lot of fun writing this 'summary' of Helen Vaughan's character, nature and motivations. I hope it makes sense to you as well. ^^; I tried not to make her too sympathetic or too ruthless. You tell me if I did well. 
> 
> ***
> 
> I also tried to clear some things up - I've always imagined, drawn and described Helen as a red-haired, green-eyed woman, but canonically, she has a distinctly 'Italian appearance'. However, there was a red-head in the story, and that was Helen's friend and implied first victim, Rachel. 
> 
> (Before that, Helen did scare a little boy, driving it insane, but that is implied to have been an accident on her part; plus, the boy survived, despite being hospitalized.)
> 
> There are several reasons I prefer to depict Helen with red hair:  
> \- the Dark Is Evil trope is lame;  
> \- naturally red hair is a very rare thing, meaning it's speshul;  
> \- red hair was thought to be a sign of a lustful and mischievous nature, as well as a fiery temper;  
> \- witches were believed to have red hair and green eyes.


	5. Morella - such a friendly neighbor

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
 **Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
 **Chapter 4: Morella – such a friendly neighbor**  
  
 _1934, July 10_  
  
 _Sleep – about 7 hours._  
 _Breakfast – 2 pieces of French toast, some coffee._  
 _Lunch – 1 chicken breast with 1 baked potato, 1 slice of bread._  
 _Dinner – 1 bowl of lentil soup, some cottage cheese._  
 _Other – 4 apples._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 3 hours 20 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful, but exhausting._  
  
 _My sweetest niece Ulalume has passed away at the tender age of 87._  
  
 _Her third body failed to carry an empty child and her soul had no vessel to move into after the difficult birth of a healthy baby boy, of all things!... Lenore writes to me that the body is in no condition for Ulie to reclaim it, should her soul manage to find its way back - the belly had to be cut open to deliver the useless pup, of which Ulie’s husband is completely unprepared to take care. Lenore suggests that we raise it as our own, whatever that is supposed to mean._  
  
 _They are probably blaming me for everything – Eulalie especially, who honestly believes Ligeia’s method to be more reliable than the old ways._  
  
 _Sweet, sweet Ulalume… One day, we shall laugh together again._  
  
 _On a brighter note, Ephraim will be away for a whole week, so I will not have to worry about him constantly hanging on my arm; also, it seems that his words have sparked Herbert West’s curiosity, since he acted in a very peculiar manner when he came to borrow something from me._  
  
  
 _1934, July 11_  
  
 _Sleep – about 5 hours._  
 _Breakfast – 1 bowl of porridge, some coffee._  
 _Lunch – 1 bowl of lentil soup, 2 slices of bread._  
 _Dinner – 1 roasted mackerel, some white wine._  
 _Other – 1 glass of milk._  
  
 _Preparation for reincarnation – 3 hours 20 minutes._  
 _Evocation of the All-Mother – successful._  
  
 _To quote Herbert West: “Souls, eh?”_  
  
Someone knocked hesitantly at her door.   
  
Morella sighed. All she wanted right now was to be alone – she had a dead girl to mourn, a newborn baby to worry about, and her own fear of graves and cradles to fight. The idea of putting on a brave face for Ephraim seemed disrespectful to Ulalume’s memory, but Morella would sooner die than break down and cry on anybody’s shoulder. She would rather…  
  
The person outside knocked again – three gentle taps, followed by a minute of silence. Ephraim Waite always knocked twice, and usually called her name if she did not answer immediately.   
  
Morella tossed Lenore’s letter on the coffee table and got up to answer. She wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve, just in case.   
  
The man standing in front of her door was in his forties, blond and thin, but the similarities between him and Ephraim ended here, and not just because of the ugly glasses and the decidedly plain clothes.   
  
“Mr. West, what a surprise.” Morella’s voice was even, as if smoothed out with a shovel.  
  
Herbert West had a classically handsome face, but even so he reminded her of a startled owl. He blinked at her a couple of times before opening his mouth to greet her...  
  
“Can I borrow a cup of flour?”   
  
So much for basic manners. Morella pursed her lips into a strained smile as she crossed her arms.  
  
“I don’t have any, I’m afraid. I do not… bake.”  
  
West gave a curt nod. He was visibly fighting the urge to turn around and go home; instead, he buried his hands into his pockets.  
  
“Then… can I borrow a cup of salt?”  
  
“I… I don’t use salt.”  
  
“Then a cup of water?”  
  
It was Morella’s turn to blink. First impressions often deceive, and she had thought that Herbert West possessed at least a smidgen of common sense.   
  
“Don’t you mean a cup of sugar?” she asked sharply. “Or an egg or two? Or whether I’ve accidentally received your mail by mistake? Those are the traditional excuses for bothering your neighbors, are they not?”  
  
“Um...”  
  
“Come back tomorrow, now is really not a good time.”  
  
***  
  
Herbert West did come back on the next day, with a box of tea – the expensive kind – and an artificial grin on his face that was probably meant to be sheepish but only made him look like a deranged scientist.  
  
“Souls, eh?” he tried to quip.  
  
Morella laughed despite herself. She was in a desperate need of a distraction, and this strange, awkward morgue technician was as good as any.  
  
“Yes, souls.”  
  
***   
  
The tea grew cold in their cups, the sugar remained unstirred. They had been talking for at least an hour about the most trivial things, such as life, death and various metaphysical rubble, but neither of them paid any attention to the clock.  
  
“… To sum it up, the soul and the body are tied to each other in ways that are quite difficult to imagine, and that’s putting it lightly.”   
  
Morella’s mouth was dry from all the talking, but to her astonishment, Herbert had managed to keep up with her. What was even more, he was actually trying to see things from her point of view, as radically different as it was from his own - something she did not expect from a person with little to no natural inclination towards this particular subject.  
  
“Your explanation was quite… decent, if I may say so.” Herbert was biting his bottom lip almost furiously, as if trying to chew it off his face. “I mean, I understand why you would choose to believe that…”  
  
“Believe, Mr. West? We do not deal with beliefs in this… business.” Morella sniffed to indicate her distaste. “We either live to see another day, or we die.” She took a gulp from her tea, and made a face at the cool, unsweetened liquid. “You do realize that whatever ‘empirical evidence’ of this can be gathered is not meant to be studied under a microscope or upon a dissection table.”  
  
Herbert stood up to reheat the teapot on the stove. Morella waited for him to return to his seat before continuing.  
  
“A belief exists – and it’s a spectacularly stupid one, too – a belief that the soul and the body are separated, like… like this tea is separated from the cup!” They both smiled weakly at her comparison. “The people who believe this also think of the soul as a glorious shining thing and a gift from the gods, and claim that the body is just a fragile, filthy container.”  
  
Herbert refilled their cups with the now warm tea. It was just the right temperature – it burned the throat, but spared the tongue.   
  
“But can they be separated?”  
  
“One cannot exist without the other, at least not without being altered irreversibly and beyond recognition... Furthermore, tearing them apart is a blasphemy against nature itself.”  
  
“Even when it’s your own soul and your own body?”  
  
“Especially then.”  
  
He seemed to fill in some sort of mental questionnaire. Morella held back a smirk. Herbert West was many things, but subtle he was not, and he knew it.  
  
“How does one go about doing it, anyway?”   
  
“I don’t see how this will help you with your…”  
  
“Reanimation. I lack knowledge of certain… unconventional sciences, and I’d rather not ask Waite.”  
  
Morella raised an eyebrow at his words.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Herbert raised an eyebrow back at her.  
  
“For the same reason you were so happy to see him leave for Boston, I guess.”  
  
“You were… you were spying on me?!”  
  
“You were singing ‘The happiest day is when you’re far away’ as you walked upstairs.”  
  
“I thought the building was empty!”  
  
“I called in sick at the morgue and stayed at home. Sue me.”  
  
Morella entertained the thought of scaring him into silence, but she quickly abandoned it in favor of good old-fashioned sincerity.  
  
“Ephraim can be exasperating, self-centered and even overbearing at times, but he is a good friend. And I am in no position to lose friends.”  
  
“That makes two of us, except that you have a besotted gaffer at your feet while I’m forced to deal with… nevermind.” Herbert made a face as he stirred his tea, despite drinking it plain. “What about the souls of other people?”  
  
“Practically impossible.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Well, no; but it’s an awful thing to do.”  
  
Morella did not want to talk about this, because the conversation could easily swerve back to Ephraim, whose body-swapping tendencies slightly repelled her, and to her ex-husband Joseph Curwen and the grand necromantic mess he had gotten himself into. To her relief, Herbert dropped the subject, obviously not wanting to push his luck.  
  
“What are you really trying to do, Mr. West? Tell me how far you’ve gone, so that I can know where to start.”  
  
Herbert took off his glasses and started rubbing his eyes. He looked tired and old, despite having very little in the way of wrinkles and a full head of hair. Morella wondered how many years he had devoted to this ‘reanimation’.   
  
Probably his entire adult life. And by the looks of it, he was painfully aware of that.   
  
“It took me quite a while to perfect the formula." Herbert's voice changed slightly as he began unwinding the ball of his memories. "My experiments resulted in many reanimated ‘patients’, but they always lacked… something. They walked, they ran, they hid, they killed; some of them even talked.” Here, the man hesitated. “Some of them remembered me, and marked me as their enemy.”  
  
Morella nodded.  
  
“They recognized the blasphemy.”   
  
The innocuous remark caused Herbert flare up and startle her.  
  
“Recogn… They were like animals! Mindless and savage… controlled fully by their most primal urges! They… they rebelled against… ungrateful… ”  
  
He looked ready to jump from his seat on the sofa and leave, just so he would not have to have this conversation, but Morella reached out across the coffee table to touch his shoulder.  
  
“When the soul isn’t there, the body degenerates and rots.” She said simply.   
  
That got Herbert’s mind back on track. He visibly deflated as he fumbled to put on his glasses. He probably needed her help very badly, Morella realized, to allow her to affect him like that.  
  
“If you must know, I invented an embalming solution to prevent the corpses’ decomposition...”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“... Eventually, I discovered that mixing my chemical solution with fresh blood and injecting the mixture into the body results in what I’m guessing is an actually successful reanimation, if only for several minutes and without the patient ever returning to full consciousness...”  
  
“Ah, blood magic. Always a nice touch.”   
  
“… and this has led me to suspect that if I manage to get this so-called ‘soul’ back into the body…   
  
Morella shook her head at him, still not letting go of his shoulder.  
  
“Have you ever heard the old saying, Mr. West? ‘If there is a will, there is a way.’ You should write it down someplace where you can see it often. You need to remember – only those who truly wish to live will be able to continue after death comes to claim them.”   
  
She thought of her sisters and nieces and cousins, of their shared fear and ambition. She thought of Ephraim Waite’s bodies and Joseph Curwen’s ashes and of the sweet Ulalume’s mangled corpse.  
  
“And they always fall in the end. You can only run so far before your deeds catch up with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Morella is in mourning, Herbert West isn't used to depending on others, and the two of them are well on their way to becoming BFFs. :P
> 
> Also, I'm totally including Edgar Allan Poe's dead but beautiful women in this fanfic... by turning them into a coven of reincarnating witches! EFF YEAH GIRL POWER WOOO!


	6. Ephraim Waite - a 'leech' of some kind

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
 **Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
 **Chapter 5: Ephraim Waite - a ‘leech’ of some kind.**  
  
 _Command List (eye contact crucial!):_  
 _Go.  (Point in desired direction.)_  
 _Stay. (Point at spot twice.)_  
 _Quiet. (Press finger to lips.)_  
 _Play. (Wave fingers around fancifully; do not overdo it.)_  
 _Fetch. (Point at object.)_  
 _Give. (Extend arm towards object, twitch fingers.)_  
 _\-----_  
 _Another possible translation of the syllable ‘IA’ – perhaps it signifies a call for help, rather than a ritualistic greeting, since the classic chant ‘IA SHUB-NIGGURATH’ is more often than not used as a sort of amplifier in various workings._  
 _\-----_  
 _1934 July 12._  
 _Joseph Curwen – ’Dr. Allen’ – 15 Lich Street._  
 _\-----_  
 _Henry Wotton Project._  
 _1934 July 14 – ‘ethereal projection’ mentioned; curiosity sparked._  
  
Ephraim Waite leaned forward in the armchair, placing his elbows on his knees, and gently tossed the small leather ball in the air.   
  
“Fetch.”   
  
To his surprise, the small shoggoth stretched until the upper part of its glistening body was no thicker than a bed sheet, and managed to catch the ball mid-air. Ephraim was impressed – the creature did not wait for the ball to land this time. It was learning to calculate distances.   
  
Soon, it was going to tell him to fetch his own damn ball.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
The wizard extended his arm. It was still a good, strong arm, but the veins under the skin were starting to bulge. Edward Derby’s body was beginning to show signs of aging. In less than ten years, these hands were going to be the hands of a decrepit old man… and he would be that man, unless something was done about it…  
  
“Give.”  
  
The shoggoth obeyed, placing the ball in its master’s palm with great care.   
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
The creature was about the size of a poodle, as black as tar and covered with dozens of beady eyes that constantly blinked in and out of existence. Its overall shape and structure reminded one of a living lump of dough that occasionally cooed. Ironically, this rather clever and perfectly obedient lump was all that was left from the Shoggoth that had once lived in the sacred cave near Chesuncook after the monstrosity had gone savage and had to be… exorcized, in a manner of speaking.  
  
Ephraim rolled the ball across the carpet. The shoggoth blinked at him. Its many eyes followed the ball, the motion of his hand, and probably the movement of the billowing curtains for all he knew.  
  
“Fetch.” The wizard ordered.  
  
And the shoggoth obeyed.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
***  
  
He placed the shoggoth in the chest before retiring to his desk. The creature spent the day either on the carpet, under Ephraim’s watchful eye, or in a lidless wooden chest where a small assortment of toys was placed to keep it occupied.  
  
Ephraim reread his notes from yesterday. Then he got up to retrieve several books from the shelves. Then he went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Then he began writing.   
  
Two hours later, Ephraim went to check on the shoggoth. It was building a small pyramid with a set of wooden blocks. It put the brown and blue ones on the bottom, the white and green ones in the middle, and a single yellow block for the top of the pyramid. This was not new – the shoggoth would build the same pyramid every day, toppling it over and over again. It would even use the same blocks, in the exact same order.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_   _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
Ephraim picked up the shoggoth – it felt like picking up a lump of watery dough– and put it in the jar before leaving the apartment. One of his great successes so far was teaching the shoggoth that ‘jar time’ meant ‘time to be very quiet and very still’. Then the wizard went to have some tea with the woman who lived downstairs – Morella.   
  
The time he would spend with her was among the highlights of his day. She shared a lot of his interests, she was pleasant to be around, and she disliked a certain necromancer almost as much as he did, though not so much as to put a dead fish in his pocket.   
  
***  
  
Ephraim was well aware that said necromancer, Joseph Curwen, was back in business, and that did not surprise him in the least, despite the horrifying rumors regarding the circumstances of the man’s second death. As Morella – Curwen’s ex-wife – had put it, people like them never stayed down for long anyway.   
  
(Ephraim suspected that Morella herself had aided the necromancer in rising again from the ashes (or ‘essential saltes’, as Curwen would prissily call them), though the idea struck him as highly unrealistic; during the twenties, when they had been running into each other almost constantly due to their circles more of less overlapping, the necromancer had alluded to having required the assistance of Yog-Sothoth itself to achieve whatever semblance of immortality he claimed to possess. And summoning Yog-Sothoth – a being that for all accounts and purposes was locked out of the universe they inhabited – was not just insanely difficult, but also insanely dangerous. Only one man had ever talked readily and with enthusiasm on the subject, and that man had been none other than the inbred maniac Noah 'The Wizard' Whateley.)  
  
Being well aware of Joseph Curwen’s return, however, did very little to prepare Ephraim for the moment when they accidentally ran into each other on Lich Street. Their meeting lasted only a minute, and neither of them spoke a word, but it revealed to Ephraim the address of at least one of Curwen’s current lairs.  
  
The necromancer was busy locking one of the doors that lined the street – in fact, he locked it twice before turning to meet Ephraim’s eyes in the crowd. He looked just as Ephraim remembered him – tall and skinny, with wispy blond hair that verged on white, and skin so pale and frail-looking it gave the impression that it might fall off any minute now. He wore a ridiculously long black cloak and a wide-brim hat. Recognition flashed in his eyes almost immediately, much to Ephraim’s astonishment – after all, the last time they met Ephraim had been wearing the body of his daughter Asenath, and neither of them had even been aware of Edward Derby's existence. Curwen raised a hand to greet him and Ephraim noticed that he was wearing white gloves – in the middle of July, no less.   
  
The ponce.  
  
Ephraim grit his teeth in a smile as they passed each other, and lifted the bag he was carrying so that Curwen could get a clear view of the pair of trout inside it.  
  
***  
  
“Why do you want to shoot at empty canisters, again?” Henry Wotton asked as he fiddled with his cane. He obviously felt uncomfortable in the middle of the withered field, far away from anything that resembled a decently paved street.   
  
“Would you like me to shoot at empty-headed people, instead?” Mrs. Helen Beaumont did not turn to look at the two men. She was busy placing several empty tin cans on the old fence. “Now let’s see if I can knock these down from a distance of, say, sixty feet.”   
  
She snapped her fingers at the men to get them to follow her, which they did. The woman had brought a whole sack of used (and washed) tin cans, as well as a box of cartridges and her favorite pocket revolver. Helen owned several firearms, including at least two rifles, and claimed to be a proficient markswoman. Ephraim had never seen her shoot, except on one remarkable occasion, but he was not about to challenge her – he knew for a fact that Helen used to frequent the shooting galleries in Arkham before finally getting banned after a small argument with the other regulars, during which she had aimed her rifle at a man’s head, thus causing him to soil himself.  
  
Ephraim could not help but constantly glance in the direction of his car – not that anything could possibly happen to it while they were wasting their afternoon on the grounds of the deserted farmhouse. Nobody had been lived here for almost fifty years and only a couple of walls marked the places where buildings had once stood. There was a small forest nearby, close to the road, which Ephraim liked to visit from time to time. In fact, they were only here because the other day he had suggested that Henry Wotton could use a change of scenery while he and Helen were waiting for the plumber to arrive – the woman had managed to clog up the drain in her bathroom for the second time since her arrival less than three months ago. Unfortunately, Helen had thought that this meant she could come along too, and before Ephraim knew it, she had started talking about tin cans and her aim.  
  
The two men watched Helen take down the first row of canisters from over sixty feet away without wasting a single shot. She ran to the fence to collect the fallen cans in a neat pile and place new ones in their stead.  
  
Ephraim allowed Henry to make small talk for a while. The Englishman spoke of his job in the cakeshop at first, but then he mentioned a detail from the most recent news from Europe – at some point, he had started keeping track on what happened over there – and before Ephraim knew it, Henry was talking about how much the world had changed after his mysterious voyage across the Atlantic, and how out-of-place and out-of-date he felt, and how he still could not wrap his head around the fact that the whole world had been at war less than twenty years ago…  
  
Ephraim watched the man’s face during the tirade and considered his other options for the umpteenth time. On a rough estimate, he had less than ten years to find a new body, and he had four healthy males living in his house at present. Herbert West had never even been considered as a potential host – Ephraim needed someone with a weak will and a fanciful nature, someone he could attract and control and ultimately throw out of their own body; West was capable of chewing through iron bars in the name of science. Edward Hyde was also out of the question – the man struck him as far too energetic and unpredictable, plus there was something vaguely repulsive about his appearance, and Ephraim needed his next body to be as good-looking as possible for the sake of easily attracting a new host when the time came around. Dorian Gray had been Ephraim’s first choice, but he soon noticed that the charming-looking fellow was even more headstrong than Mr. Hyde.   
  
The only option left was the intelligent (but not too much), somewhat handsome and over-anxious Henry Wotton. All things considered, it could have been worse; at least this one was perfectly inexperienced - a real fish-out-of-water, unlike the late Edward Derby.  
  
Ephraim looked straight into his eyes and thought of the chant he normally used to prepare his mind for the psychic assault he was about to commit – a simple sentence in Aklo he had discovered many years ago while rereading the Necronomicon. His throat muscles clenched reflexively as he imagined the sounds.  
  
“You miss your old life, don’t you?” The wizard’s thoughts reached out like curious tentacles to brush against Henry Wotton’s tidy mind. “More than you dare to admit?”  
  
The looks on the other man’s face was incredulous.   
  
“How can I not?” His tone indicated that he took offence at Ephraim's polite inquiry.  
  
Helen’s reappearance interrupted their exchange of rhetorical questions. A lock of red hair had escaped the tight confines of her elegant bun. The woman was obviously annoyed by the lack of applause.  
  
“You know, watching you two standing here looking pretty makes me regret I didn’t bring a bunch of apples and some arrows.“ She twirled the revolver around her finger, but the effect was immediately lost when she almost dropped the gun.   
  
Neither of the two men dared to breathe, so Helen took it out on the second row of tin cans. Ephraim waited for her to stomp away before resuming the conversation.  
  
“I can relate, you know.” He almost whispered; Henry did not reply, but his face seemed to soften a bit, so Ephraim continued. “I too once lost everything I thought I could depend on.”  
  
That sounded mysterious enough to tickle the Englishman’s curiosity.  
  
“You did?”  
  
Ephraim nodded.  
  
“It felt like… being buried alive – I had nowhere to go, nobody to ask for help… and nothing else to lose, except myself. All I could do was to grab at whatever straws I could reach and pull myself out of the pit.”   
  
To be fair, Ephraim had done just that, by completely possessing Edward Derby’s body and banishing his soul to Asenath’s mangled corpse. But those were trivial details, and not of great importance right now.    
  
Henry’s blank facial expression immediately shifted into one of understanding and sympathy.  
  
“Did your wife leave you too?”   
  
The wizard was temporarily caught off guard, but as he opened his mouth to deny it, he remembered that Edward Derby had bashed Asenath’s head in before burying the body in the  
basement.  
  
“I… yes. My spouse left me. But that’s beside the point.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
They both waited for Helen to finish her third row of tin cans, making sure to applaud her this time. She ignored them. Ephraim could not help but smirk at her retreating back – he and Henry were already beginning to reach an understanding, and part of that understanding was that Mrs. Beaumont should be excluded from their small chat.  
  
Once the woman was too far away to hear them, the wizard turned to fully face his victim.  
  
“I suggest that you take a good look at the life you left behind, Mr. Wotton, and decide whether you miss it in its entirety, or just certain parts of it...”  
  
Henry interrupted him with a sigh.  
  
“My dear Mr. Derby, in case you haven’t already guessed, the life I used to lead back in London... in the 19th century... was not what one might call grand, but I was perfectly happy all the same. I had my own place in the world, and from the place where I stood the world looked beautiful. Every day I would take a look at my reflection in the mirror, and every time I found a reason to smile at it...”  
  
“And have you thought about going back home?” Ephraim barely managed not to roll his eyes. “Or to London, at least?”  
  
“Yes, yes I have; in fact, I’ve started saving money for the trip. I will get on one of the ships that cross the Atlantic, and once I’m in England… “  
  
Ephraim waved his hand dismissively at the plan.  
  
“There are other ways.”  
  
“I’m not much of a swimmer, I’m afraid…”  
  
“I can help you find out what became of your family. I can even help you see what waits for you on the other side of the ocean, if there is indeed anything left for you there.”  
  
Henry furrowed his brow in confusion... and consideration.   
  
“How… ”  
  
Ephraim felt like a magician addressing a random child from the audience to help him with his next trick.  
  
“Tell me, Mr. Wotton, have you ever heard of ethereal projection?”  
  
Helen was coming back – she had run out of tin cans, and now she carried their remains in the small sack. Henry’s eyes tried not to dart at her. He looked terribly guilty for a second. Ephraim noticed and gave a delicate snort.  
  
“Oh, don’t bother asking for  _her_  opinion! She knows next to nothing on the subject, you’ll only confuse her.” At least until Helen put two and two together and went after Ephraim with one of her rifles. “And it’s not as if she’s offered you any help in this matter, or has she?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Just as I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ephraim Waite doesn't really have a diary - just a bunch of notes he keep together in several notebooks and folders.


	7. Dorian Gray - pretty as a picture

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
 **Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
 **Chapter 6: Dorian Gray – pretty as a picture.**  
  
 _Bon Mot Art Gallery – 665 Peabody Ave. – daily, 13.00-20.00 NOTHING_  
  
 _Evans Gallery – 47 Walnut Str. – daily, 11-18.00 NOTHING_  
  
 _[a ticket stub for Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’]_  
  
 _Good or bad, charming or tedious – it is the way other people affect one’s affairs that determines one’s opinion of them._  
  
 _Grover House – 64 East Str. – weekends, 11.00-14.00, 17.00-19.00 NOTHING_  
  
 _Exhibition ’Treasures’ – D. August (private collection) – 175 French Hill Str. – 1-6 July, 13.00-19.00. NOTHING_  
  
 _[two pressed daisies, their stems intertwined]_  
  
 _Arkham Art Club – 25 Crane Str. – 15-20 July, 10.00-14.00 & 17.00-21.00. NOTHING_  
  
 _Exhibition/sale – Dr. Allen (private collection) – 15 Lich Str. – 23-25 July, 16.00-19.00._  
  
“No.”   
  
“Oh, come on, Gray!”  
  
“Absolutely not!”  
  
“Are you absolutely certain?”   
  
“Hyde, last time I went to that… that… ummm…”  
  
“Casino. The word you’re looking for is casino.”  
  
“… last time, some imbecile managed to spill whiskey down my back!”  
  
“Last time, I won two months worth of rent…”  
  
“Only because the rest of your table was busy watching me fish ice cubes out of my shirt.”  
  
“Exactly!  _And_  they kept buying us drinks, too. Definitely worth another visit, if you ask me.”   
  
Dorian Gray could not think of an answer – at least, not of an answer he would not mind giving to one Edward Hyde – so he just sighed, rolling his eyes for good measure.   
  
Meaningless posturing aside, the sad truth was that he could not afford to waste his time in gambling dens, even if the distractions they provided were more than welcomed: he rather enjoyed the music (jazz, they called it), and he simply adored the queer new dances, with their hectic rhythm and jerky movements; he certainly didn’t mind having the occasional drink, playing the occasional game of cards, throwing the occasional peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth…   
  
But his picture – his horrifying, disgusting, precious picture – was somewhere nearby. Or was going to be, at some point in the future. It made sense that the painting would end up in Arkham, just like everyone else had at some point – that is to say, everyone who ‘fit’, as Mrs. Beaumont had put it.   
  
Everyone who was not originally from here, from this world.  
  
Edward bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, obviously impatient. When he realized that Dorian would not relent, he clicked his tongue in disappointment.   
  
“Alright then, Gray. Let’s go to your oh-so-important exhibition.”  
  
They looked both ways before crossing the street, but once they were on the other side they stopped again so that Edward could admire the shiny new automobile parked there – ‘the new Rolls-Royce 20/25’, as he called it. Dorian could not help but smile as the other man rattled off statistics and details he had no doubt picked up from the various magazines he liked to read in his spare time. At times, he wished he possessed at least some of Edward’s flighty passion for subjects, objects and people. It certainly made for a more light-hearted approach to life, unlike Dorian’s penchant for obsessing over a single topic until he got sick of it.  
  
“Didn’t you once say that you’d like to learn how to drive?” Edward scratched his chin as he circled the automobile in an almost predatory way.   
  
Dorian laughed, as if his companion were not fully capable of stealing a machine neither of them could operate.  
  
“No, I said I want to see the art exhibition on Lich Street before it gets crowded.”   
  
“Hm, you make a compelling argument, Mr. Gray.”  
  
They continued on their merry way, not really talking but simply pointing out curious sights to each other – a tattered poster for a motion picture called ‘Freaks’, an otherwise pretty girl with garish bleached hair, a dead cat. Dorian could not help but notice that they too were a curious sight in the eyes of the other passers-by, and he could not help but silently agree with them. They were indeed a strange pair, Gray and Hyde – tall and short, blonde and dark, angelic and demonic; even their clothes, despite being similarly cheap and clean, were as different as night and day. Dorian preferred to wear light colors and would meticulously iron all his garments, while Edward would wear practically anything, as long as it was his size and did not itch.  
  
They already knew the city like the back of their hands, and they had only lived here for a month. Dorian had seen the moon grow and swell and shrink and grow again, high above Arkham’s rooftops. One month, and he was already used to almost everything.   
  
Except not knowing where his picture was.   
  
Old habits die hard, Dorian would tell himself, at least until he realized how little he missed everything else he had left behind – the beautiful house he had called home and his vast and wondrous collection were now nothing more than a pleasant memory, and so were the adoring faces of his many associates; he did not even feel like reaching for the little yellow book he was so fond of, now that it was out of his reach…    
  
Edward coughed, no doubt aware that Dorian’s mind was someplace else. Dorian immediately turned his head to look at his companion. It always paid to be polite.   
  
“Why me?”   
  
The problem with Edward Hyde was that he was so straight-forward, one often had trouble understanding him. Some people conversed in a manner similar to building a house and just as complicated; Edward Hyde seemed to throw a blanket on the cold hard ground and declare it sufficient, and if you did not like it, that was your problem, not his.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Why do you insist on inviting me to join you during your rounds?”  
  
Dorian stared at him for a moment, before deciding to tell Edward the truth. Or at least one of the several truths.  
  
“I thought you could use the distraction.”  
  
A slight frown.  
  
“So could Wotton.”  
  
A pout.   
  
“You seem to forget that I share an apartment and a pâtisserie with Henry, and believe me, he can be quite a handful. Not to mention that he simply refuses to shut up about London…”  
  
“Exactly. The bloke’s homesick. If anyone could use a distraction, it’s him.”  
  
“His presence is exhausting at best and upsetting at worst. Anyway, why do you even care?”  
  
“I don’t. But you should.”  
  
The childish pout turned into a sour grimace.  
  
“I believe that’s Mrs. Beaumont’s job – to take care of little lost lambs…”  
  
“Hah. So you’ve noticed?”  
  
“That we are surrounded by wolves, Mr. Hyde? Yes, I’ve noticed.”  
  
“Wolves? I’d call them loons, but… if you insist…”  
  
Edward Hyde began to whistle a happy tune, and Dorian Gray did not wish to interrupt. The man was tricky enough to deal with when he was in a good mood, and the things Dorian could tell him were sure to ruin anybody’s day.   
  
Dorian still remembered the West End Horrors back in 1888. He had known those men intimately, if not personally, and so had the indescribable Mrs. Beaumont. And he had watched closely the rest of their neighbors, too: the landlord kept a monstrous sentient lump of slime as a pet, and that was probably just the beginning of it; the woman next door could chill you to the bone with one half-lidded look; the man from the basement worked in a morgue. And the previous tenants…   
  
Dorian did not share these thoughts with Edward – in fact, he rarely shared his actual thoughts with anyone, at least not without polishing and decorating them beyond recognition. He thought of this as a sensible defensive strategy.  
  
***  
  
As far as Dorian was concerned, the exhibition-slash-sale on Lich Street was a pleasant waste of time. The house itself was rather lovely with its antique (even by his standards) furniture, the wine they were served was acceptable, and the host – a frail man of unidentifiable age called Dr. Allen – spent most of the evening in a luxurious armchair while his young assistant dealt with the guests.   
  
Dorian recognized Richard Pickman’s name under several paintings – apparently, those were some of his earliest and least revolting works, and they were already marked as sold. There were other paintings (but not a single portrait), half as many woodcarvings, a moldy statue of a flute-playing satyr, and an intriguing tapestry that took up an entire wall. Dorian and Edward spent a lot of time studying the scene it depicted – a masked ball, or perhaps a carnival of some sort.   
  
Edward noticed that real gold thread was used for the central figure, along with a dozen river pearls for the face.   
  
Dorian noticed that the golden shape was embroidered on the cloth rather woven into it, which caused it to stick out even more.    
  
“I see you’ve found ‘The Lost Carcosa’.”   
  
They turned around simultaneously. The man was short, plump and very old, with a face that made lemons looks sweet in comparison.  
  
“The name of this masterpiece.” The elderly gentleman explained as he gently pushed them aside to place a small sticker in the lower right corner of the tapestry. “And now it belongs to the library of Miskatonic University.” He stepped back and gave the tapestry a stern look, as if daring it to deny his words, before finally sparing a glance at the two men. “Look, but don’t touch. Have a nice evening.”  
  
With that, he sauntered away, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Edward made a move to follow him, no doubt ready and willing to arrange a  _bloody_  nice evening for the elderly gentleman, but Dorian gripped his elbow tightly, sinking his nails into the other man’s arm.    
  
“Stop where you are.” He hissed; he was ready to pinch, perhaps even kick an ankle or two. “Remember…”  
  
“Right.” Edward gritted his teeth and swallowed audibly. He inhaled deeply and picked up Dorian's mantra. “Picture of propriety… ”  
  
“And sobriety, and piety… “ Dorian’s lips quirked up in a smile. Edward never indulged him with this small rhyme unless he was in full control of his urges.   
  
And thank god he was, because the host was headed their way, nodding politely at the elderly gentleman when they passed each other. Dr. Allen’s overall appearance reminded Dorian of a spider’s web – pale, frail and somewhat pretty – but his apologetic smile seemed to be genuine.   
  
“Mr. Armitage did not wish for the… the tapestry to be exhibited tonight. As if he… were in a shop and I were obliged to… to wrap it up for him.”   
  
Dr. Allen’s wheezing voice was just painful to listen to, and he seemed to realize it, because he pressed his lips in a thin line, looking very displeased with himself. Edward said nothing, choosing to glare at the elderly gentleman’s retreating back for the sake of glaring at someone.   
  
“The tapestry must be very important to him…“ Dorian let go of his companion’s elbow as discreetly as he could. “To the library, I mean. He mentioned that…”  
  
Dr. Allen waved his hand impatiently. One could easily pick out the separate bones and arteries through the almost transparent skin.  
  
“Between the three of us… the University would never have been able to afford it… had I not been pressed for money.”  
  
Dr. Allen looked around for his assistant, but the bespectacled young man was already by his side with a glass of water. Dorian and Edward patiently waited for their host to feel comfortable again – it was obvious that their conversation was far from over. The assistant glanced at them in a manner not dissimilar to that of Mr. Armitage, but scampered away as soon as the glass was empty.   
  
Dr. Allen stared at Dorian in an almost loving way. Dorian thought nothing of it; it was not as if he could turn off his natural charm.   
  
“Forgive me, but I simply have to ask… Have you ever posed for a painting?”  
  
Dorian preened.  
  
“Yes. Of course I have.”  
  
Edward pretended to hold back his vomit, but Dr. Allen paid no attention to him.   
  
“I thought so…” Their host was practically beaming, but then he bared his teeth and his entire pleasant facade came crashing down in an instant. “Oh, how fortunate... How fortunate indeed!”   
  
“R-really?” Dorian felt his own smile slide off his face. Next to him, Edward held his breath and stood very still, as if unsure whether to fight or...   
  
“Yes, very fortunate…” Dr. Allen finally stopped grinning and nodded solemnly. “You see, child… ” Here he nodded again, as if to confirm that yes, to him Dorian was but a child. “You see… a couple of weeks ago I happened across this… this beautiful portrait while browsing the shops on Aylesbury Street… and ever since then… I’ve been quite smitten with it… I try to visit every day… despite my poor health and Mr. Hamner’s… that’s my assistant… constant fretting.”   
  
Dr. Allen nodded again, and Dorian realized he was nodding back. His heart seemed to choke inside his chest.  
  
“The young man on the portrait is, what can I say, truly a sight for sore eyes… but the technique… the technique is absolutely remarkable… practically unique! Alas, the shopkeeper refuses to sell it…”  
  
“Refuses to sell it?” Dorian could barely hear his own voice over the sound of blood rushing to his brain.  
  
“Alas, alas… But now I am thinking…” Allen bared his teeth again. Dorian shuddered like a dog at the sight. “Perhaps your presence will help me convince him...”  
  
“Perhaps…”   
  
Dorian’s shaking hand reached out on its own volition to accept Dr. Allen’s calling card. His body suddenly felt both very light and very sore, as if he was waking up from a nice dream.   
  
“Perhaps next week... Have a nice evening, Mr. Gray.”   
  
And with that, Dr. Allen turned his back on them and retreated to the comfort of his throne-like armchair.  
  
Dorian felt a tap on his shoulder and then someone hissed in his ear:   
  
“I reckon we should leave, now.”   
  
***  
  
Dorian got out of the house as casually as he could, before breaking into a run. He thought he could hear Edward shouting after him, and promptly slowed down to a brisk walk.  
  
 _His mouth is ash, his tongue is dust, his teeth are salt, but he knows where my picture is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian Gray's diary turns out to be a notebook with some addresses in it plus random scribbles and scraps. Makes sense, no? Gotta keep those secrets secret!
> 
> ***  
> Is it too obvious that I ship Dorian Gray/Edward Hyde?
> 
> But seriously, these two are so similar (prone to debaucheries of the highest caliber, yet reluctant to face the consequences of their actions) but yet they have this very nice contrast - someone once said that if Hyde is what lurks behind the facade, then Dorian IS the facade. I even have this theory that Dorian is what Jekyll would like to be, or perhaps even could be if he weren't such a good two-shoes. :P


	8. Herbert West - '... for I am every dead thing...'

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**

**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**

**Chapter 7: Herbert West – '... for I am every dead thing...'**

07/15/1934

_Solution – 0.220 L_  
 _Blood – 0.440 L_  
 _Subject – black female, 26 yrs, 120 lbs, 5’4”, slit throat (stitched up)._

_15 minutes after the transfusion, the subject showed symptoms of life – weak pulse, weak breathing, responsive pupils, twitching fingers of both hands._

_19 minutes later, the subject blinked twice._

_22 minutes later, all symptoms ceased._

_1 injection of the solution’s antidote, just in case._

_1 injection of embalming solution._

_Note to self – mark the grave; resume work with the subject once the method of reanimation is perfected._

***

07/16/1934

_Day off._

_I invited A.F. to lunch. He has found a new job as a caretaker of a pet cemetery near Aylesbury Street._

_He told me a curious story regarding the cemetery’s reanimating function and its connection to our previous ’employer’ – I. the ‘Wendigo’ in Greenland. V. ironic, considering that we were hired to reanimate its pets, and do it properly._

_It is always nice to learn that one has surpassed an ancient ‘deity’._

_C.W. is yet to find suitable specimen._

***

07/17/1934

_No experiments today._

_I spoke with M. regarding her reanimating methods. She described it as a ‘complicated alchemical process that subjugates the body and the soul to the will via regular meditation while in an altered state of consciousness’ – which means that she begets an empty body to transfer her ‘soul’ into after giving birth to it. Apparently, the process is very delicate, as well as extremely exhausting and time-consuming, but otherwise well-thought-out – the old body dies as soon as the ‘soul’ enters the new body, yet the old body doesn't rot until the ‘soul’ has settled into the new body. That might take years, and the ‘soul’ has to be constantly reminded of who it really is/was._

_V. interesting._

_I almost got discovered by E.W. when he knocked on M.’s door to bring her some books, but she did not let him enter her apartment._

_Note to self – be more discreet when visiting M._

***

07/18/1934

_No experiments today._

_I spoke with M. regarding her family. It seems that her sisters are also experimenting in the area of reanimation – or reincarnation, as M. calls it – and are almost always successful._

_M. mentioned ‘Ligeia’ (I asked her to spell it for me) and her 'curious technique', and even offered to introduce me once ‘Ligeia’ returns from Europe._

***

07/19/1934

_No experiments today._

_I spoke with M. regarding the ‘soul’-capturing methods again. She insists that this is a foul practice that should never be mentioned in polite conversation. I sense an issue._

_M. suggested that I should think about applying the solution for prolonging life rather than restarting it. I would need willing, living subjects for that experiment. M. said she would think about it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Study me then, you who shall lovers be  
>  At the next world, that is, at the next spring;  
>  For I am every dead thing,  
>  In whom Love wrought new alchemy.  
>  For his art did express  
>  A quintessence even from nothingness,  
>  From dull privations, and lean emptiness;  
>  He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot  
>  Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.  
> \- John Donne, "A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day"
> 
> aka THE BEST NINE-LINE STANZA EVER.
> 
> (That's how it's called it in English, right?)
> 
> ***  
> Herbert West/Morella are my new Wilbur Whateley/Marceline Bedard - I don't know if it's an OTP or a BrOTP. :D 
> 
> ***
> 
> I love writing Herbert's chapters - they're short and... well, not really sweet.
> 
> In this chapter I make a reference to Herbert and Adam Frankenstein's expedition to Greenland from 'The Little Apartment Building', where they reanimate some bear-like monsters for Ithaqua (aka the Windwalker aka the Wendigo) to cuddle. 
> 
> Fun fact - the Wendigo is also mentioned in Stephen King's 'Pet Sematary' as the force that resurrects those buried in the old Indian burial ground, only for them to return as demonic cannibals. Not that Herbert's zombies were any better, mind you, but we only hear about two actual murderers among them - Halsey and the boxer. And even then they were like rabid animals, while Gage (Pet Sematary) was a vulgar brat with a scalpel.
> 
> Also, I accidentally wrote about one third of Morella's next chapter, and I may or may have not set up a little something for a future fic of mine - 'Crouch End Ally'.


	9. Morella – '... and I am re-begot...'

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Chapter 8: Morella – '... and I am re-begot...'**  
  
_1934, July 18_  
  
_Sleep – about 9 hours._  
_Breakfast – 1 egg on toast, some coffee._  
_Lunch – white rice and chicken, 1 glass of white wine._  
_Dinner – 1 boiled egg._  
_Other – 3 slices of honeydew melon._  
  
_Preparation for reincarnation – 4 hours 10 minutes._  
_Evocation of the All-Mother – successful._  
  
_Ephraim gave me a four-leaf clover which he found in the garden while tending the flower beds._  
  
_In other news, I finally discovered why his trip to Boston had to be cancelled. There have been a number of raids in the city and several people, some of whom he knows personally, have been arrested as suspects in a case of ritual murder in one of the old cemeteries. Needless to say, Ephraim was incredibly lucky to get a whiff of the storm before it hit._  
  
  
_1934, July 20_  
  
_Sleep – about 7 hours._  
_Breakfast – 1 croissant, 1 glass of milk._  
_Lunch – white rice and chicken, 2 glasses of white wine._  
_Dinner – nothing._  
_Other – 5 slices of honeydew melon._  
  
_Preparation for reincarnation – 5 hours 30 minutes._  
_Evocation of the All-Mother – successful, yet slightly disconcerting because of noticeable and abrupt heart rhythm changes._  
  
_I received a letter from Berenice today – she has inspected the cave near Chesuncook Lake and confirms everything Ephraim has alluded to during our conversations._  
  
_She tells me that the cave is largely unusable, but once the debris is cleaned we could probably store things in it, like equipment, food, extra clothes and perhaps even our old bodies. Berenice insists on spending the rest of the summer and perhaps all autumn near the cave, in order to solidify our position as the new mistresses of the region – to ‘fill the hole’. She assures me that the first rites were performed on the night of the new moon – July 11 - with highly satisfying results._  
  
  
_1934, July 21_  
  
_Sleep – about 6 hours._  
_Breakfast – 1 glass of milk, 2 pieces of bread._  
_Lunch – 2 hard-boiled eggs._  
_Dinner – nothing._  
  
_Preparation for reincarnation – 4 hours 10 minutes._  
_Evocation of the All-Mother – successful._  
  
_Apparently, Ephraim invites that Henry Wotton person over for tea on a daily basis._  
_I should act fast._  
  
“… and not only was my first husband incredibly unsupportive of me during my ‘illness’, as he called my pregnancy, but he refused to name our child – which was actually me, and he knew it, he knew it instinctively, if not consciously, the unhelpful prick…. Anyway, he refused to name the child until said child turned ten. Can you imagine that?”   
  
“Ha!”  
  
“Ha indeed.”  
  
Morella moved her black rook across the board and took Herbert West’s bishop. He pushed a pawn forward, to keep her rook from taking his last remaining knight. It was all in vain, though – his knight was hers after two moves. Herbert West sighed, puffing his cheeks as he blew the air out. He could not play chess worth a damn, but Morella had somehow managed to convince him that he needed to focus on something else – anything else, really, as long as it had nothing to do with chemistry and corpses (and as long as she was there to gently steer his thoughts in the right direction).  
  
“Of course, my sisters just love to bring it up whenever I get too uppity.” Morella murmured as she placed the knight in her small pile of captive white pieces. “Berenice especially, because she knows I am too nice to mention her own story of woe.”  
  
“I didn’t know you had any.” Herbert tentatively moved his queen. “Sisters, I mean. Check.”  
  
“Seven of them, in fact. Then again, in the process of rebirth, when we shed our old flesh and move into the young bodies, the blood ties become weaker and we become cousins… aunts and nieces too, depending on the generation.”   
  
Morella pushed her king to the left and stared at the board for a long minute. Herbert nodded pensively and moved his last remaining bishop without really looking at the board.   
  
“So about this… Berenice… and her so-called story of woe…”   
  
Morella rested her chin on her hand and moved her rook to claim the bishop.  
  
“In a way, one might consider that to be her first time of dying. That is a rather special moment for us, but… “ She sighed; she never should have alluded to  _that_  particular story. “You see, she was prone to cataleptic trances, which only got worse when she began her… preparations; until one day she simply did not wake up. Her body grew cold and stiff; everyone thought she had died, and so they buried her alive...”  
  
“That must have been unpleasant.”  
  
“Her husband was less than attentive – not as much as mine, of course – and quite sick in the head, though that did not become obvious until it was too late. We’re not sure what exactly happened, whether she dug herself out or he violated her grave, but what we do know is that he pulled out all of her teeth in a fit of madness and then he simply… left her there.”   
  
“That must have been  _very_  unpleasant.”  
  
“She had to wear dentures afterwards. And I believe it’s your turn.”  
  
“Oh. Oh, yes, right…”   
  
Herbert’s raised hand hovered over the chessboard, ready to bring doom to whichever piece he chose to move next.   
  
“You might want to do something about your rook.” Morella suggested.  
  
Herbert pushed the rook in front of his king.  
  
“Did Berenice ever… hm… ”  
  
“Reincarnate? Of course.” Morella snorted, but it came out as a sniffle. “She’s still unable to grow permanent teeth, though; but she survived the worst.”  
  
“Which would be…?”  
  
“For one to wish they were dead.”  
  
Morella stole a glance at Herbert’s face. His lips were tightly pursed, but there was no disdain in his eyes – just confusion and curiosity. She could not help but think back to another necromancer, one who dabbled in magic rather than science yet also preferred to dwell in catacombs and basements.   
  
Herbert West was not Joseph Curwen, and Joseph Curwen was not Ephraim Waite, but she had no way of knowing whether the story was to repeat itself in some way. They were prideful creatures, after all – insolent and sure of themselves to a fault, and how could they not be, when they dared to rig the wheel of life?  
  
“Not all of us managed to be as willful as Berenice, mind you. Annie, Nora, Ulie… they will never rise from their tombs. Lenore insists that they are fine, wherever they are now, and I choose to believe her… but while it’s kind of nice to think of it that way, there’s a thin line between not being afraid of death and fantasizing about how  _wonderful_  it will be when we are finally  _all together_  again...”  
  
To Morella’s surprise, Herbert managed to claim her queen and declare check in one move. That cut her off mid-rant, for which she was secretly grateful... until Herbert demonstrated his good listening abilities by summing up her family.  
  
“So in other words, three of your sisters are dead, one was mutilated, one goes on and on about how dying isn’t so bad after all… what about the other two? What’s wrong with them?”  
  
Morella gritted her teeth. She saved her king and proceeded to claim Herbert’s queen and rooks.   
  
“Check… and that would be mate, unless I’m mistaken.”  
  
“You’re never mistaken.”  
  
They began setting up the pieces for another game; Morella preferred Black, so she had to remind her opponent that he was supposed to make the first move. They played in silence for some time, until Herbert started losing pieces faster than a shaken tree its fruit, so he stopped paying attention to the game and started talking about his favorite topic - death.  
  
“If there’s one thing I find hard to understand, it’s why none of you thought about consulting a medical specialist when it became clear that your practices were dangerous for your health and even life?”  
  
“You cannot fix that which is not broken.”  
  
“And neither can you fix it once it does get broken.“  
  
Morella would have been impressed by the comeback, had it not been directed at her.   
  
“Are you accusing us of carelessness?”   
  
Herbert actually had the audacity to smirk.  
  
“I merely suspect you of it.”  
  
“I’ll have you know that our methods almost always bring about the desired results.”  
  
“Really now?”  
  
“Statistically speaking, that is.”  
  
***  
  
Morella gingerly poked at the small abomination with one of her pencils. It did not try to run away, but it did wobble slightly on its fingers when the pencil touched it, and then it wobbled some more as its three eyes started blinking rapidly. That was all it consisted of, really – human fingers, palms and eyes, all glued together by some unknown means.   
  
“I call it Handy.” Herbert announced with a sheepish grin. “The ‘H’ is silent.”   
  
“How… clever of you?”   
  
Morella tried to count how many hands had been used to create the ugly thing, but gave up when Handy decided to explore the rest of her coffee table. Morella managed to save the flower vase, but her tea spoon ended up on the floor, along with the sugar bowl’s lid and one of the books Ephraim had lent her.  
  
“Would you like to see something adorable?”   
  
Herbert tapped out ‘Shave and a Hair Cut’ on the table with his knuckles. Handy immediately paused to respond with the obligatory ‘Two Bits’.   
  
“Neat.” Morella deadpanned.   
  
“I know.” Herbert seemed to be completely oblivious to her discomfort, because he kept smiling like a lunatic; nevertheless, he picked up Handy and placed it back in its designated box. Handy put up no struggle – in fact, it went limp as soon as its creator’s fingers touched its own.    
  
Morella waited for Herbert to clean up Handy’s mess, which he did without uttering a single word of apology. When he returned to his seat on the couch, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him for good measure. Herbert responded with a raised eyebrow, a quirk of his lips, and not a single ounce of regret.  
  
Morella soon relented. There was no point in fighting a battle she could not hope to win.  
  
“Have you thought about creating a large-scale version of Handy? A whole, live human body, built from the remains of several corpses?”   
  
The change in Herbert’s expression was quick and subtle and somehow even more disconcerting than his previous maniacal grin. Morella’s annoyance vanished completely, replaced by mild interest.    
  
“Yes, I have. A long time ago, in fact.”   
  
He adjusted his glasses and then awkwardly rubbed his nose, as if trying to hide his face. Morella pretended not to notice. It was her turn to smile obnoxiously.  
  
“Really? What parts did you use?”   
  
“Any parts. All the parts.” He began fumbling with his collar. “And so did they, when their turn came…”   
  
“I beg your pa… oh.”  
  
The stitches above his collarbone were almost invisible, but thanks to the close distance between them and the decent lighting in her apartment Morella could see them clearly and easily envision the monstrous wound they were meant to seal.   
  
***  
  
Morella was not the kind of woman who could be easily surprised. It was something that came with the territory – after all, full control of the body meant full control of the mind. Startling her, however, was quite possible, even if one had to get up very early in the morning in order to catch her off guard.   
  
However, it probably should not have come as a shock when she ran into her neighbor – Henry, if she remembered correctly – just as he was leaving Ephraim Waite’s apartment. The man greeted her with a nod and a smile, looking every bit the English gentlemen Ephraim claimed he was despite the glaringly cheap clothes. Morella remembered her manners just in time and managed to say hello back. She clutched the book she was carrying closer to her chest, lest he saw its cover, but the man paid no more attention to her. She heard him whistle a cheerful melody as he climbed down the very steep and very creaky stairs that separated Ephraim from his tenants.   
  
Morella’s feet were like nailed to the carpeted floor. She glared at the familiar door, wanting nothing more than to go inside and knock some sense into Ephraim’s big dumb dummy head, but that would have been counter-productive. She took a deep breath – several deep breaths, actually – before turning around and retreating to her own apartment.   
  
She had to write a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Study me then, you who shall lovers be  
> At the next world, that is, at the next spring;  
> For I am every dead thing,  
> In whom Love wrought new alchemy.  
> For his art did express  
> A quintessence even from nothingness,  
> From dull privations, and lean emptiness;  
> He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot  
> Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.  
> \- John Donne, "A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day"
> 
> I hereby claim this poem in the name of HMS Morella x Herbert West = BROS 5EVA!
> 
> ***  
> In this chapter, we get to learn more about Morella's family, I get to make a reference to Pratchett's Maskerade and to Shark Tale (of all movies) and, most importantly, Herbert gets to show his bitchy side. :P
> 
> Also, the Not What It Looks Like trope makes an appearance, but nobody's fooled, not even for a second.


	10. Dracula – strange tides

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**  
  
**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Chapter 9: Dracula – strange tides**  
  
The sun was sinking into the ocean slowly, almost agonizingly so, in the prosaic manner of a dying god whose glorious fate was to rise again on the following morning. The choppy waves seemed to lap its glittering trail, like countless deformed tongues. The city of Boston was just beyond the horizon - a hair-thin line, but the oncoming night was going to swallow any sign of it in a couple of hours.   
  
The schooner  _Demeter_  had not moved from its spot since the storm clouds dispersed, and its passengers were starting to get irritated – both with their predicament and with the self-proclaimed captain of the vessel. Currently, all four of them were on deck, which was quite unusual, since they all preferred to sleep in their soil-filled coffins until the moon rose; but irritation made for uneasy slumber, so they soon gave up and crawled out of the ship’s hold to glare at the sunset and at each other.  
  
The three females were sitting in a circle, braiding each other’s hair and waiting for something to happen. The unison of their movements was an uncanny sight to behold – brush, pull, twist, secure. They did not speak, but they would exchange pointed looks from time to time. The Count was on the tip of the bowsprit again, trying to call up a storm and get the ship moving.   
  
At first, it had been rather entertaining – seeing the mighty fall (or at least falter) generally was. It had quickly become clear, however, that this was no laughing matter, and they had been forced to recognize the situation for what it was – a nice bit of a disaster, for which they were completely unprepared. Not even the slightest breeze touched the sails. There was not a single other vessel in sight. Dead silence reigned on the schooner – the kind of silence one could only find in ancient tombs and forgotten dungeons.   
  
The Count was not the type to give up easily, but he knew when to stop trying. He looked away from the stubbornly cloudless sky and, keeping his eyes downcast, he walked along the bowsprit and back to the deck. He sat on an empty crate and pulled out an old map from his breast pocket. The females moved to sit closer to him, as if to help him lick his metaphorical wounds.   
  
He felt he had to say something.  
  
“This must be an off-day for me. This does not normally happen.“  
  
***  
  
They had been together for quite a while – more than a century, in fact.   
  
The Count was the eldest, the initiator, the leader of their small company. He would sometimes refer to the three female tagalongs as his ‘brides’, but only when they were out of earshot, which was rarely; in truth, however, he had never been married to either of them – the oldest of the ‘brides’, the one with the blonde hair and the fine features, was the bastard daughter of an old friend of his, and thus an entirely unsuitable match for a Count such as him; while the other two were not only his distant descendants, but also resembled him greatly, especially in the nose department, so a marriage would have been not only unacceptable but just plain awkward.   
  
Then there was also the small matter of vampires having little to no respect for the meaningless rituals that humans set store by, unless said rituals were capable of affecting them in some way.  
  
***  
  
Once the sun was gone, the Count once again attempted to get the schooner moving, and once again ended up glowering at the peaceful skies. Centuries ago, he had come across an old farmer yelling at the clouds, and for the first time in his long existence he found himself sympathizing with a peasant.   
  
He returned to his crate and to his ‘brides’. The three women looked at the Count expectantly. There was an unspoken agreement that bound him to them, an agreement that they had only reached long after the contract had been sealed – immortality in exchange for companionship, companionship in exchange for protection, protection in exchange for obedience.   
  
“Whatever shall we do now?”   
  
It was Anastasia who demanded a solution – Anastasia the Fair, Anastasia the First, Anastasia who was starting to resemble her blood-soaked mother more and more with every passing decade. The Count knew better than to ignore her.   
  
“We shall wait.” He murmured.  
  
“Wait for what?” She demanded, again – as if he were denying her something he could easily give.  
  
The Count pursed his lips.  
  
“For the winds to obey me.”   
  
“They obeyed you just fine a couple of hours ago…”   
  
Anna the Old placed a hand on Anastasia’s wrist – let it go – and thankfully Anastasia got the hint.   
  
With an appreciative nod to the silence that followed Anna’s gesture, rather than to the gesture itself, the Count spread the wrinkled map on the dock, so that everyone could see. He leaned forward to trace their course with a single long nail. It had been nothing but smooth sailing from Boston to Baltimore, and from Baltimore to Charleston, and then back to Boston and then to Arkham by land…   
  
“The wind is gone.” He whispered. “And gone are the shadows in the water…”   
  
“Do you know what those were?” Anna the Young asked meekly, as if to compensate for her ‘sister’’s behavior a minute ago.     
  
“Not yet.”  
  
***  
  
The shadows had followed  _Demeter_  since June 6th (after the Count got rid of the three pesky British fops but before he made arrangements with Vaughan to visit her in Arkham on June 26th). He had noticed them immediately, of course; how could he not – at least three dozen pale, vaguely humanoid shapes under the water’s surface that swam along the schooner, unheeding of the storm that raged over the ocean at the Count’s command. They reminded him of a school of dolphins he had seen once, during one of his Mediterranean voyages...  
  
… in 1888, to be exact, three months after the necromantic debacle in London. The Count had made a point of asking Vaughan whether there was a chance, however small, that the Van Hellsings might exist in this world. He wanted to enjoy this experience properly, and was there anything more proper than exacting revenge on your enemy’s descendants?...  
  
After his brief visit to Arkham, the Count had returned to Boston Harbor and to  _Demeter_ , and had decided to set a course for the British West Indies – Jamaica sounded particularly intriguing, like the chorus of a catchy song.   
  
All the while, the shadows had followed them with dogged determination. They had made no attempt to initiate contact and they had ignored the passive-aggressive dumping of empty crates overboard.  
  
And now they were finally gone.  
  
Final…  
  
Fin…    
  
***  
  
The other ship appeared just as the full moon began rising above the horizon – in fact, it appeared to follow the moonlight path on the water. It was another schooner – visibly older than theirs and in an appalling condition, with large holes in the hull and torn-up rags in place of sails, and without a single light on board. It swayed gently, like a woman’s hips, and yet it was unmistakably headed towards  _Demeter_.  
  
Perched on the very tip of the bowsprit, the Count observed the strange vessel like a hawk, and the closer it got, the worse it looked – as if it were built entirely of rotting flesh rather than wood, its rigging resembling the cobwebs of a mindless spider; a corpse of a ship that seemed to have forgotten to sink and simply sailed on... and on… and on…  
  
Something crawled out from below deck once the two schooners were less than thirty meters apart – literally crawled out, then stood up gracefully and went to lean on the gunwale. The creature was wearing a hooded robe, and the robe was  **red** , and the Count could clearly see the creature’s three eyes and its mouth and its hair and also that it was most likely a she, and then he finally remembered to look for the ship’s name on its rotten hull.    
  
Oh, the irony.  
  
She waved at him with a hand that was not a human hand, and called out to him with a voice that was not a human voice.  
  
"Welcome to my ship! Board it freely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!"  
  
The Count waved back, because what else was he supposed to do?  
  
“It would seem that the old myths have come alive tonight, although this  _Demeter_  was not actively searching for her lost  _Persephone_.”  
  
The red-robed creature shook her hooded head.  
  
“I have never been lost.”  
  
The Count glanced over at his ‘brides’, who had huddled together and peeked at  _Persephone_  through their fingers. It was childish, and thus very uncharacteristic of them. He turned his attention back to the ghastly ship and its ghastly mistress.   
  
It had been ages since he last had to deal with a deity.  
  
“We have many places to be and many people to see” he began in his most casual voice, “but we have no wind in our sails. Perhaps you could…”  
  
The red-robed creature’s smile grew into a freakish conglomeration of teeth and lips. Her three eyes widened ever so slightly before sinking – disappearing – into the eye sockets.   
  
“Perhaps you could accept my invitation while it still counts.”   
  
And then, with an utterly unnatural swiftness that bordered on viciousness,  _Persephone_  rammed  _Demeter_ , as if trying to gut her; several pale creatures reared their ugly head through the numerous holes in the hull, just like maggots from a wound, and the Count recognized the shadows that had stalked him for more than a fortnight. He had been right – there were thirty-six of them, and they were indeed vaguely humanoid. And also vaguely ichthyic, and vaguely batrachian, but most of all they resembled half-rotten corpses – because that was exactly what they were. They dived into the water and swam over to  _Demeter_ ; climbing up the ship’s hull was child’s play to them.   
  
Once they were on board, the corpses began fighting their way to the parts of the ship that were below deck – the hold and the cabins. The ‘brides’ managed to tear two of them into pieces, but the rest simply pressed on and went about their business. The Count did not hesitate to fling himself into the battle. He was in the middle of ripping off two heads at the same time when the voice of the red-robed creature rose above the sounds of flesh being torn apart and bones cracking.  
  
“Gaze upon them, the children of the ocean. How unruffled they are, even as their meat hangs in tatters!... Ah, sir, you plain immortals cannot ever hope to enter into the feelings of a god."  
  
The Count tossed the heads aside and turned to face her. The monstrous smile was still there, and the eyeballs were still missing, and at that moment he knew. And he knew that she knew that he knew. He could easily jump on board of  _Persephone_. He could easily attack the red-robed creature. He could easily end up as a pile of ash.   
  
Again.  
  
He could feel blood rushing to his head, to his face, to his eyes, but his voice was calm and even when he informed the red-robed creature that:  
  
“Your servants are trespassing.”   
  
She cocked her head slightly to one side.   
  
“That is exactly what they told me when they boarded  _my_  ship.’ She sounded amused. “Trespassing… These sea monkeys like to think that the oceans are part of their empire. Little do they know, however…”  
  
She paused, as if waiting for the Count to say something, which he did.  
  
“I am listening.”  
  
“We are indeed trespassing – you and I,  _Demeter_  and  _Persephone_. And not just us. There is a well-beaten path…”  
  
The Count recalled the horrific, uncontrollable storm that had carried his ship over to the year 1934, to a world where the dead sometimes walked. He recalled Vaughan and her explanation.   
  
“We are here because we fit.” He said, speaking more to himself than to the red-robed creature. “We are here because we belong. This is a strange world, but there is a place for us in it.”  
  
“Indeed there is.” She agreed. “And your particular place is here.”  
  
The ‘sea monkeys’ reemerged from below deck with the four soil-filled coffins and began struggling to transfer them safely onto  _Persephone_. Of the three dozen, nineteen had survived – the ‘brides’ had managed to deal with a total of five corpses, and not without getting hurt in the process. There was no sign of the beautiful braids they had fussed over earlier this evening, and their gowns were caked in gore. They looked downright miserable.  
  
Vampires rarely, if ever, got to lose a battle and keep their un-lives.   
  
***  
  
_Persephone_  towed the wrecked remains of  _Demeter_  away from the spot of the short-lived naval battle, and also away from the moon and from any familiar constellations. Darkness embraced the two ships, but oh-so-gently – for the few stars that shone above them were far brighter than the Evening Star, and the strange pale clouds that criss-crossed the sky resembled the long locks of a sleeping goddess. The ocean obtained a curious oily sheen, and the waves hummed.  
  
_OoohIwanttotakeyou…_  
  
It would have been a most interesting experience, had circumstances been different. At least they got to choose where to place their coffins; the deckhouse was now theirs to use, along with a much needed barrel of rainwater and some washcloths.   
  
The ‘brides’ refused to leave the Count’s side, even when the red-robed creature approached their small group and presented the Count with a blank postcard from a previously unknown to him city in Peru, South America. Then she handed him a pen and a couple of stamps – again, from Peru. When the Count eyes the objects warily, she shrugged.   
  
“You can pick another country, of course. Like Haiti.” Like a magician at a fair, she pulled out a bunch of postcards out of her sleeve, several rolls of stamps from various countries, and finally a rusty chain with a number of official-looking rubber-seals; the items disappeared as swiftly as they had appeared. “You will not believe what treasures one can find, even in an unassuming little shop…”   
  
The Count was in no mood for small talk. He was in no mood to die, either, but he had his limits.  
  
“What do you want from us?”   
  
Perse’s nightmare of a mouth twitched.   
  
“You can rest assured that I want nothing that is beyond your abilities. But first, the postcard. Here’s what I want you to write… more or less. Use your own words to make it sound more believable. After all, we don’t want your friends to worry about you, now do we?”  
  
_Hello Milady!_  
  
_Ever the worrywart, I hope my message finds you in good spirit and health; please forgive an old man for being concerned for the well-being of a young child (which is what you are, compared to me; no, I am not trying to tease you)._  
  
_Legendary – that is the only word I can think of that can properly describe our journey so far; every second proves to be a most enlightening experience, especially once we began exploring the Amazon River. Yes, the Amazon River – you may rack your brain over the mystery behind our swift movement from one continent to another until I return, which will not be soon (unlike the postcards I will try to send you whenever I can; here is another mystery for you to try and fail to solve)._  
  
_Promises are meant to be broken, and yet here I am informing you that we shall try to be in Boston by July 20; however, we can never be certain where the fancy might take us, especially since you did mention to me once (in 1888, if memory serves me correctly) that Buenos Aires makes for a marvelous hunting ground._  
  
_Unfortunately, while the food is plentiful and delicious, our mouths long for riveting conversation. Anastasia, Anna and Anna miss you terribly._  
  
_Sincerely, your dear friend and friendly rival,_  
  
_Count Dracula._  
  
_June 27th 1934_  
_Iquitos, Peru_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION! Now all my fics have notes in the end, so you might want to go over them and read them and stuff.
> 
> ***  
> In which I go out of my way to never call the Count by his name, only use the word 'vampire' twice, spend hours thinking of names and backstories for the three 'brides' (which btw were never called that in the original novel), figure out the Count's history with Helen Vaughan (part of which shall be covered in a one-shot fic), and cram enough references to make myself choke while proof-reading the text. 
> 
> Also, this is officially the weirdest thing I've ever written, and I enjoyed every minute of it. 
> 
> ***  
> Okay, so first thing's first. The three 'brides':  
> \- _Anastasia_ \- the blonde one; got vamped in the late 1500s; she's the bastard daughter of Elizabeth Bathory (yes, that means the Blood Countess is Dracula's mother-in-unholy-law); in the book, she snaps at Dracula, which leads me to think that she's a bit headstrong.  
>  \- _Anna the Old_ \- one of Dracula's descendants; got vamped in the 1600s; while I think the incestuous undertones are quite fitting, what with Dracula's MO when it comes to ladies, I'd like to think that they see the Count as a guardian figure of sorts.  
>  \- _Anna the Young_ \- another of Dracula's descendants; got vamped in the 1700s; I went through Vlad the Impaler's family tree and picked her and the other Anna partly because of the similar names, partly because of the centuries of birth. I'd like to think that the Count gets a new 'bride' every century, and that Lucy (and afterwards Mina) was his choice for 1800s.
> 
> In case you can't tell, I'm really fond of the 'brides', or rather 'sisters'. 
> 
> ***  
> Perse - the villain of 'Duma Key' - was bound to make an appearance sooner or later. I can't wait to get around to writing Crouch End Ally and give her the spotlight she deserves. 
> 
> BTW, I've noticed a peculiar something that most of Stephen King's Main Villains and Monsters have in common - they can't stand competition for the title of Scariest Thing In This Book. If there are other baddies in the same book as them, you can be 99% sure they'll end up dead or worse. 
> 
> Quiz time - an incredibly powerful vampire versus an eldritch abomination that may or may not be the Queen of the Underworld. Who's gonna win?
> 
> Yeah, thought so. 
> 
> ***  
> This chapter was brought to you by signs of Stockholm Syndrome, cruel irony, and the Beach Boys' song 'Kokomo', which I hereby claim as Perse's signature song. 
> 
> ***  
> And surprise surprise! We get to read the postcard Helen received in the Prologue. 
> 
> You might want to read its text twice... See if there's something unusual about it.
> 
> ***  
> By the by, has anyone ever called the Deep Ones 'sea monkeys', or is it just me?


	11. Ephraim Waite - hypnosis and hypocrisy

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,  
  
** **Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**  
  
**Chapter 10: Ephraim Waite – hypnosis and hypocrisy**  
  
  
_The rat population in Arkham is expanding rapidly. Rodents of unusual size are said to have been spotted in the alleys near Aylesbury Street._  
  
_\-----_  
  
_To buy:_  
 _\- coffee_  
 _\- bread_  
 _- ~~gin~~_  
 _\- canned beans_  
 _\- mousetraps – ~~6~~  10_  
 _\- cheese_  
  
_\-----_  
  
_**H** ~~enry~~   **W** ~~otton~~   **Project**  _  
  
_1934 July 14 – ‘ethereal projection’ mentioned; curiosity sparked._  
  
_1934 July 18 – explained the nature of projection (exact words used – ‘separating one’s mind from one’s body and experiencing the world as a disembodied consciousness’); arrangements made for future meetings._  
  
[a hastily drawn week-long timetable titled ‘Lovett’]  
  
_1934 July 19 – had a chat (mainly about the ‘Lovett’ pâtisserie; HW admitted that he is not ‘cut out to be a baker’ and proceeded to make a jocular reference to biscuit cutters - how silly). **Switch – unsuccessful.**  _  
  
_1934 July 20 – had a chat (mainly about fashion and entertainment – HW is very enthusiastic about the skirt lengths and the sound films). **Switch – unsuccessful.**_  
  
[a short text, written entirely in Latin, whose structure is very similar to that of a cooking recipe]  
  
_1934 July 21 – served tea – 1 cup; had a chat (mainly about Beaumont; HW tells me that Lovett and Beaumont first met nearly 50 years ago in London, in a gin-shop on Queer Street, which according to Henry was ‘a den of iniquity, and not the fun kind either’). **Switch – unsuccessful.**_  
  
_Possibility of Beaumont and her bunch of misfits to have traveled through time? Highly unlikely, since they have obviously kept their original bodies, a feat impossible even for the Race of Yith._  
  
_Possibility of Beaumont and her bunch of misfits to have come from an alternate universe? Sounds like it!_  
  
_1934 July 22 – served tea – 2 cups! **Switch – SUCCESSFUL, albeit very brief.**  _  
  
_Should start looking for a suitable place in order to complete the exchange and get rid of the leftovers without anyone interfering._  
  
[two newspaper clippings regarding houses for rent in England]  
  
\-----  
  
_Nobody among my acquaintances seems to know of a woman going by the name of Morella, and nobody can recall ever meeting a woman that matches her description. This is especially curious, because Joseph Curwen’s return was one of the most talked-about events of the previous year, which Morella claims to have spent as his wife; however, none of the rumors regarding Curwen mention a woman of any kind._  
  
\-----  
  
[a torn-out piece of paper from a lease contract, containing a single signature]  
  
_Henry Wotton                                  Henry Wotton_  
  
_Henry Wotton_  
  
_Henry Wotton_  
 _Henry Wotton_  
  
 _Henry Wotton                      Henry Wotton_  
  
 _Henry Wotton_  
  
\-----   
  
_1934 July 25 (full moon)_  
  
_A vivid dream – blood seeping from under a door which was slightly ajar, there was a shiny key in the keyhole on my side of the door._  
  
  
As befitting a proper parasite, Ephraim Waite harbored absolutely no feelings of guilt over the deaths of his previous hosts – namely, his daughter Asenath and ‘her’ (actually  _his_ ) husband Edward Derby.   
  
If anything, he felt betrayed by them – by Asenath’s uncomfortable brain, which had driven him to seek out a new body much sooner than he had originally planned, and by what Derby’s physician euphemistically referred to as ‘organic weaknesses', which were now threatening to return with a vengeance and force Ephraim on an untimely hunt for his soul’s next vessel. Ephraim was not looking forward to embarking on yet another such quest, because the process of finding a new body was not unlike shopping for a good pair of high-heeled shoes – bodies, just like shoes, needed to be easy to put on and easy to take off, comfortable to wear for long periods of time, good-looking, practical, and preferably not too hard to obtain... In short, it was a bother.   
  
The only silver lining in the entire situation was the prospect of losing Edward Derby’s identity. As much as Ephraim enjoyed wearing the face of the man who had bludgeoned him to death once (and forcing said face to contort into hilarious grimaces every morning in front of the bathroom mirror), he found himself severely limited by it – the Miskatonic University had proven itself to be a veritable haven for weak-willed yet undoubtedly clever young men, but Edward and Asenath Derby’s (actually Ephraim’s) ‘infamous’ experiments had resulted in the pair’s banishment from said young men’s circles.   
  
Ephraim had in fact expected that particular development – after all, the wizards of his caliber had always been known for their cunning, but never for their subtlety, and the more power they had, the less inclined they were to hide it. However, he now felt that going back to Miskatonic would be like frequenting a crime scene – not a clever thing to do, at least not while wearing the face of one of the main suspects. That and the disbandment of the Chesuncook Witch Coven less than a year ago had done little to weaken Ephraim’s position in the ‘proper’ occult community, but it was one thing to belong to a powerful cult and another to simply have a lot of penpals. Now he could rely on his ‘ex-brethren’ for information and nothing else. It was almost as pathetic as the shrunken shoggoth he had to take care of, except that the shoggoth did not care whether it occupied a grandiose cave or a humble jar.   
  
If he had to be completely honest, Ephraim’s situation could have been a lot worse. His spur-of-the-moment decision to turn his house into an apartment building, while uncharacteristic and risky, had paid off – money were no longer a concern (thanks to a certain humanoid abomination’s knack for alchemy and the resulting pile of gold) and he also had not one, but three unsuspecting, nearly destitute and healthy-looking gentlemen living under his roof – a pretty man named Gray, a tricky man named Hyde, and a silly man named Wotton. Sure, they already had another sort of predator breathing down their necks, and she was a vicious creature to boot, but what Helen Beaumont did not know could not hurt Ephraim Waite.   
  
In other words, he had reasons to believe he might just be able to reschedule his death to another decade.  
  
***  
  
Ephraim had several theories about life and society, and one of them stated there was no such thing as a truly sane man. Then he met Henry Wotton.  
  
Henry Wotton was seemingly perfect for Ephraims's goals – middle-aged, in tip-top physical condition, extroverted and highly imaginative, stupid enough to think himself clever, clever enough to fool others into thinking the same… and, unfortunately, about as stable as the foundations of the old castles and manors that were so common in his native England. To top it all off, there was also the small matter of Henry actually coming not only from another country, but from another time (1890s, to be exact) and most likely from another universe altogether. Ephraim had not anticipated that this would pose a problem, until he first tried to hypnotize Henry and ended up staring at the Englishman like a salmon might stare at a rabbit – a chance meeting of two very different creatures from two very different worlds.   
  
It only took two days of failures before Ephraim decided to bring in the heavy artillery - opiates.   
  
***  
  
Henry Wotton placed the paper bag on the table (he had brought macaroons this time) and sat in the usual chair – the large one with the silk cushions. It was Morella’s favorite chair as well, and Ephraim’s too, but he was all too happy to let them take it, especially since he wanted each of them to feel comfortable around him, what with his interest in both their minds and their bodies.  
  
Ephraim took his time serving the tea – a unique blend of special herbs, rare mushrooms and select insects. He made a great show out of checking its color before pouring it in the cups. Then he took a seat in the less comfortable chair that was strategically positioned right across Henry’s, leaned back and smiled encouragingly at his guest.   
  
“How was your day, Mr. Wotton?”    
  
Henry shrugged a little and said nothing. It was a rather odd gesture, considering how talkative he normally was.   
  
Ephraim could not help but notice that the man looked a bit the worse for wear this afternoon – the healthy glow of his skin and his characteristic slight smile were gone, and while his hair and goatee were groomed to perfection, his cheap clothes had a mismatched and slightly wrinkly look about them, as if he had forgotten to take a gander in the mirror before leaving his apartment.   
  
“Mr. Wotton, you know how much I hate to see you troubled, especially since we're yet to make any progress.” Ephraim tried not to furrow his brow; he was supposed to come off as a well-meaning occultist, and certainly not as the impatient body-snatching wizard he actually was. “We both understand how important it is for you to be calm before we begin the ethereal projection, so out with it.”  
  
Henry tried to smile, but managed only to grimace.   
  
“I’m afraid I didn’t get enough sleep last night, Mr. Derby.” Here he rubbed his eyes, as if for emphasis.  
  
“Was it the mattress?” Ephraim remembered with annoyance that Dorian Gray kept complaining about the mattresses and the pillows and demanded that he be provided with new ones, the delicate prick.   
  
Henry seemed to recall this as well, because he smiled again – this time genuinely and also a bit apologetically – and said:  
  
“No, no, I’m yet to find peas in my bed…” He paused to take a sip of tea. The corners of his mouth twitched downwards, indicating his disgust, but he drank again. ”I swear, I must have spent half the night twisting and turning, and to top it all off I woke up with my feet on the pillow and my head under the blanket. I think I had a dream, but I can’t remember anything about it – only a distinct feeling of confusion, its weight upon me like a pile of stones.”   
  
“Are you certain you can't remember anything?” Ephraim coughed, but did not touch his tea; his mind was perfectly ‘flexible’ without the use of opiates. “No shapes, no colors, no sounds, no smells or textures? Nothing at all?”  
  
“Nothing – only blinding, deafening confusion.” Henry pursed his lips for a second. “As if I'm not confused enough while I’m awake.”   
  
They spent the next fifteen minutes sitting in comfortable silence. Henry drank his tea in small sips, each sweetened with a macaroon; once his cup was empty, he placed it on the table with visible relief.   
  
“Ah… I dare say I feel much better now… refreshed, even. What did you say this tea was?”  
  
“It’s a very rare sort.” Well, Ephraim was not lying about the ingredients being rare. “From Zanzibar.” He had no idea where that might be, but it sounded sufficiently exotic.  
  
“The taste is certainly rare.” Henry licked his lips almost mechanically. “Though I suppose one can get used to it, with enough time.”  
  
“With enough cups.” Ephraim added, and was promptly rewarded with polite laughter.   
  
***  
  
Ephraim’s thoughts sprawled luxuriously towards his guest – tentacles, strings, waves, all in search of something to grasp, to warp, to ruin.   
  
Henry shuddered instinctively, but said nothing. He seemed to be at peace with the world, or at least thoroughly drugged, if his relaxed pose and dazed expression were any indication. His body appeared to be half-asleep, slumped on the silk pillows like a giant cloth doll, but his mind was alert in that special way that allowed one to see everything but understand nothing – a curious and unpleasant state.  
  
For what felt like the thousandth time in his unnaturally long life, Ephraim thought of the spell that enabled him to exchange his body for that of another living being. It was a scalpel of a spell – small, uncomplicated, and dangerous in unskilled hands. As usual, he became acutely aware of the muscles of his jaw and throat as they clenched on their own accord, tracing the unspoken sounds and syllables like the fingers of a blind man would trace the letters of the Braille alphabet.   
  
Ephraim’s itchy thoughts brushed against the smooth surface of Henry’s mind – glass shards raining upon polished marble and once again failing to sink into it.   
  
Damn it.  
  
During his prolonged life, Ephraim had come in contact with all sorts of minds, but he had never had such difficulty just breaking into someone’s head, nevermind actually going through with the body swap. He felt simultaneously irritated and disappointed – he had hoped desperately that his special tea might make a difference. In his anger, he dug his thoughts into Henry’s mind like nails into...  
  
… huh…  
  
… into a palm.   
  
The hard marble had suddenly turned into supple flesh.   
  
Ephraim did not hesitate to wrap his thoughts tightly around the suddenly all-too-pliable mind; it was not dissimilar to tying a piece of string around a limb in order to cut off the blood flow. He waited until Henry’s thought processes slowed down, smothered by his own (and also by the combination of opiates and blind trust).   
  
Now it was almost too easy, but Ephraim had never liked challenges anyway.   
  
He counted three heartbeats, then grabbed the other man’s mind by the proverbial collar and plucked it out his well-groomed head.  
  
The switch took less than a second and lasted less than a minute – plenty of time for Henry to realize what was happening, but not nearly enough for the initial shock to wear off, which would have sent him rushing back to his own body. Ephraim used this time to feel up the insides of Henry’s skull (a rather complicated procedure, but Ephraim had been into plenty of heads and knew his way around the brain) and finally confirmed that yes, this particular pile of gray matter would do nicely.  
  
As he poked about like the uninvited guest he was, Ephraim distractedly observed how Edward Derby’s features changed when they became Henry Wotton’s – the usual slight frown disappeared, only to be replaced by a familiar look of surprise and fear that had been Derby’s default facial expression during the last years of their marriage.   
  
He realized he had missed seeing it.   
  
***  
  
“Ah, we’re finally getting somewhere.” Ephraim quipped as he watched Henry rub his eyes and then stare at his hands, as if he were not certain they were his own.   
  
They still were, but not for long. Not if Ephraim had anything to say about it.  
  
“What… what just happened?” Henry slurred his words a little – a side effect of the tea, no doubt.   
  
“Nothing to worry about.” Ephraim lied. “Your freshly disembodied mind was simply confused by all the possibilities its new-found freedom had to offer; and since it isn’t used to being disembodied, it rushed into the nearest body available.”  
  
Henry seemed to find it difficult to quickly assimilate the information, but eventually he said - or rather, mumbled:  
  
“Yours.”   
  
“Strangely, yes.”  
  
“My mind… in your body.”  
  
“I repeat, you needn't worry about it.”   
  
Eprahim got up from his chair and stretched with a content sigh, then started clearing the table. He piled everything on a small tray - the cups (his was full), the saucers, the silver teaspoons and the small kettle; he had offered neither sugar nor milk to go with the tea out of fear that they might lessen its effect. Henry attempted to get up and help, but immediately went pale and had to sit down again, his eyes fluttering closed. Ephraim remembered that this time Henry had drunk not one but two cups of the special tea... which happened to be poisonous in large quantities.   
  
Oops?    
  
“You need to rest.” He placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder and made him lean back so that he can look into his eyes – their pupils were dilated. “You just went through something quite extraordinary. Allow your mind to settle back in.”   
  
Ephraim carried the tray to the kitchen and left it in the sink – he would have plenty of time to wash everything later, after he had made the most out of Henry’s vulnerable state. He suspected that the tea’s effect was going to wear off in an hour or so. Until then, Henry was highly susceptible to suggestions and even more talkative than usual – a veritable double-edged sword. That was just fine, as long as he only spoke with Ephraim and nobody else and especially not with a certain Mrs. Beaumont.   
  
However, just as Ephraim opened his mouth to begin ‘cultivating’ his guest, Henry blurted out a single word:  
  
“Possibilities.”   
  
Apparently, his guest was not nearly as incoherent as he had first suspected. Ephraim was almost impressed. Almost.   
  
“It’s a whole new world, Mr. Wotton. A world full of possibilities...”   
  
He was going to start ranting about powerful magic and magical secrets and secret powers - the usual mystic spiel that got the wide-eyed novices hooked on him - but Henry interrupted him. Again.  
  
“A world where I might have been a woman.”  
  
Ephraim felt his left eye twitch, as if Henry had poked it with a stick, but the other man did not seem to notice, for he continued:   
  
“Or a stillborn child. Or a beggar in Wales. Or a character in a famous play. A world where I might have never existed. And yet I am here. But why?”  
  
For the first time since he had met Henry Wotton, Ephraim did not know what to say to the man.   
  
“The others, they... they are supposed to be dead, I'm certain of it. I went to Dorian's funeral. I read in the papers about Mrs. Beaumont's mysterious disappearance and heard rumors of her suicide. I think I can ever remember reading about Mr. Hyde as well... Me, however? I was alive and well. What is the point of me being  _here_  and  _now_ , of all places and all times and… and all worlds?”   
  
As far as Ephraim was concerned, Henry’s entire ‘point’ was to become his next pair of shoes, and he did not hesitate to imply it - in the nicest way possible, of course.  
  
“You are here because you are needed." He thought about it for a second and decided to elaborate. "You are here because there's a place for you to occupy and a role for you to play."   
  
Henry gave him an incredulous look.   
  
"That's what Mrs. Beaumont said... more or less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! It's been, what, six months since I last updated? 
> 
> Okay, let's recap!
> 
> The setting - Arkham, summer of 1934, in the little apartment building of Ephraim Waite AKA Edward Derby to the unsuspecting populace. Various characters are alive for a reason that they do not (and hopefully will not) understand. They are strangers in a strange land, but as long as they have each other everything will be... strange. 
> 
> The story so far, by characters:  
> \- Helen Vaughan is a busy businesswoman who tries to lay low... or at least, lower than she did back in Victorian London;  
> \- Morella is a manipulative witch who must get pregnant with her next body soon, if she wants to live forever... or at least, longer than it's natural;  
> \- Ephraim Waite is a manipulative wizard who must trick some unfortunate dude into exchanging bodies with him soon, if he wants to live forever... or at least, longer than it's natural;  
> \- Dorian Gray is looking for his painting with the help of a clueless Edward Hyde and as of recently with the help of a man who calls himself Dr. Allen (better known to Ephraim and Morella as Joseph Curwen) and his assistant Hamner;  
> \- Count Dracula and his lovely companions have embarked on an ocean voyage, but their schooner 'Demeter' gets captured by another ship - 'Persephone' - whose crew and captain are somehow even more macabre than our favorite quartet of vampires.
> 
> ***
> 
> This chapter is perhaps one of the creepiest things I've ever written, and as much as I enjoy the idea of Henry Wotton being manipulated for once in his fabulous life, Ephraim is the last person who should be doing any manipulating whatsoever - I mean, we're talking about the guy who possessed and killed his only daughter and then infiltrated her school! :o 
> 
> I'm so sorry, Henry. You're a cool character as a whole, and you had a lot of great lines in 'The Picture of Dorian Gray', but trust me when I say that this 'verse isn't your cup of tea. I'll try to make it up to you, I promise.


	12. Interlude

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**

**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**

**Interlude**

 

_1934_

_July 26_

It was a pleasant summer morning, if a bit too cold for the second half of July. The almost unnaturally blue sky loomed innocently over Arkham, whose streets were still damp after last night’s rain. It had rained all night long, and it had only stopped pouring well after sunrise.

However, the necromancer Joseph Curwen could not care less about the weather conditions, at least not today. He had no intention of leaving his lair for the next couple of days, so he did not bother to peek through the crack between the heavy curtains, not even out of common curiosity – in fact, he even pulled said curtains closer together as he made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen. It was important to him that the house on 15 Lich Street remained dark and cool and quiet, regardless of the weather – not unlike a rather spacious and tastefully furnished tomb, if one thought about it. Of course, several ticking clocks could be found around the place, as well as a store-bought calendar with the past dates meticulously marked off and at least one current newspaper; for despite his unusual preferences, Curwen took a rather keen interest in life, especially that of other people, and particularly that part of it that only began after their death.

Anyway, it was morning, and it was time for breakfast. Curwen thoughtfully covered the kitchen table and his lap with a suitably thick piece of cloth before tucking a napkin under his chin, even though neither of these protective measures  was really needed – he had long ago mastered the fine art of eating unbled meat without making a mess. He sank his teeth into the raw flesh like a good vampire, or at least as good a vampire as a human can become without actually getting bitten by one first. He had to feed himself regularly, and he had to rest well, and while those requirements did not permit for his schedule to be as busy as he would have liked, he still had plenty of time and opportunities.

Also mail. He went through the small pile of unopened letters, pushing them with a pinky finger until they were arranged in a neat spread with the senders’ addresses visible.

There was the weekly bill from the butchery on Crane Street and the monthly bill for the chemicals from New York. Curwen needed to remember to send a check for the latter and also to cancel his arrangement (daily delivery and payment every Friday) with the butcher.

There was the eagerly-awaited letter from Philadelphia, which he was going to answer by travelling there to meet the sender in person (regardless of the letter’s contents), and an expected-but-unwelcomed letter from Innsmouth, which he was not going to answer anytime soon. Oh, he was going to reply, eventually, and he might even pay them a visit sometime in the future – he was curious to see with his own eyes just how far the mighty Innsmouth had fallen after the government raids in 1928.

He had also received the usual very short, very sweet, very insincere letter from the Lady Morella. For some reason, the woman insisted to write to him every month, even though he had made it explicitly clear that she need not bother. He was well aware that she detested him, and he was not terribly fond of her either – she had been disappointed to learn his quite-literally-dust-born body was unable to help her conceive a child (or more accurately, a new vessel for her soul), and he in turn had been frustrated by the fact that Morella’s magical methods, while very interesting to observe, were completely inapplicable to his own occult practices. Their marriage had lasted less than a year – 11 months and 3 weeks, to be exact – but now that they lived and worked apart, they managed to once again be civil to one another, at least in their correspondence… if the monthly exchange of one page’s worth of meaningless niceties and an alimony check could be called ‘civil’ or even a ‘correspondence’.

Finally, there was a letter from the Miskatonic University, which he impatiently opened despite his bloodied fingers. Indeed, it was the long-awaited complaint regarding their problems with the tapestry. The head librarian had purchased it from the “exhibition” that Curwen and his “assistant”, Edward Hamner, had staged several days ago. The librarian – an elderly man named Henry Armitage – had written at length about strange smells emanating from the tapestry that were thought to be the cause of a recent ‘epidemic of headaches’ among staff and visitors alike. Curwen had no intention of replying or even being available for contact – he was going to leave Arkham in less than a month. Hopefully by then the tapestry, which he had infused with certain substances of his own invention, would have killed someone in a manner gruesome enough to spark the interest of the national press.

Curwen craned his neck to swallow the last bite of the meat and then, knowing full well that he might be forced to go hungry for a while, started licking the blood off his plate and fingers.

He had already sorted out most of the details pertaining to his moving out – he had paid, cancelled and packed everything that needed paying, cancelling and packing (his bills, his subscriptions and his books, respectively); he had sold or donated everything that had been acquired on a whim rather than out of necessity (he had actually managed to sell his Pickman paintings for double the price, but the deer head mounts had proved to be a complete waste of money); he had informed the few worthwhile acquaintances he had made in Arkham of his intentions (and he had made sure they knew he was leaving on his own volition, and _not_ because he was being chased by a crowd with torches and pitchforks).

He took his time cleaning his face and hands with a dampened napkin, which remained unusually clean after he was done.

Eighteen months ago, Joseph Curwen had been a pile of blue-gray dust, simultaneously hidden and displayed on the fireplace mantel of one Dr. Marinus Bicknell Willett – the meddling physician had at least been respectful enough to place his remains in an elaborately decorated lead urn. Curwen had returned the gesture by beating him to death with that same urn. Afterward he had donned one of Willett’s suits, pocketed whatever little money Willett kept in his home, and left Providence forever. In many ways, it had been worse than the first time he rose from the dust – with no lair and no friends to return to (a certain vengeful spirit had seen to that) and no Charles Ward to hide behind, for the first time in his existence Curwen had truly hit rock bottom.

Rock bottom, however, turned out to be a solid foundation, and eighteen months after his unexpected return Joseph Curwen could boast: two small but well-equipped lairs in Boston and Salem; enough experience, information and money to live in relative comfort in this strange new century; and a small but trusted network of like-minded people. And even though he still did not know under what conditions he had been transformed from a pile of dust into a sort-of-living creature (though he had his suspicions), he had good reasons to believe that there was plenty of time to solve the mystery… which had been in fact his main motivation to become (more or less) immortal in the first place – time, plenty of it, for all sorts of mysteries. 

***

_1934_

_July 25_

Joseph Curwen disliked having to work at strange locations, unless they also happened to be extremely interesting, and this particular corner on Aylesbury Street was both.

For one thing, it was practically deserted – the dingy apartments above the small shop were uninhabited, and the small shop underneath the dingy apartments was empty; not exactly a common sight in Arkham, what with all the university students who needed cheap accommodation. What was even more curious, the corner was not even supposed to _exist_ \- that is to say, the small alley between numbers 59 and 57 was not even hinted at on any of the several maps of Arkham that Curwen happened to own… and yet there it was, barely wide enough for two people to walk comfortably yet seemingly endless – as far as Curwen could see, it went on and on until the colorless cobblestones of the narrow path and the blackened bricks of the towering buildings seemed to merge in the distance. A slightly bent lamppost stood guard in front of the alley’s entrance. Curwen had always visited Aylesbury Street in the evening, so he knew that the lamppost was functioning, but he did not expect to find it lit in the early afternoon.

Curwen did not like this place in the slightest. It reeked of something unidentifiable – both literally and figuratively. However, as much as his intuition urged him to stay away from Aylesbury Street, it also insisted that such a curiosity should be investigated further. The curiosity in question was neither the alley’s existence nor whatever waited at its other end, but the one of the empty shop and more specifically what that was being stored there.

***

For the twentieth time in the past two months, Joseph Curwen stared at the life-sized painting, his unblinking eyes opened wide, as if to take in as many details at the same time as possible. He examined the figure depicted on the canvas with an expression not too different from that of a mortician faced with a particularly smelly ‘client’.

He had tried everything – every ritual he could remember, every combination of spells he could think of, every divination method he could trust, but to no avail. He knew almost as much as he had at the very beginning when he had first laid his eyes on the portrait, and what he knew he had known immediately, in the same way one looks at a freshly severed hand and know that someone out there is bleeding.  

“It’s him.” he eventually said, not looking away from the painting, his head turning ever-so-slightly at the general direction of his companion. “It looks nothing like him, and yet…”

The companion in question, a bespectacled young man known as Edward Hamner, offered one of his usual good-natured smiles that Curwen suspected him of having practiced in front of a mirror.

“I guess you’ll have to see them standing next to each other.” Hamner’s smile twisted into an obnoxious smirk, which somehow did wonders for his plain face. “Or maybe _hanging_ next to each other, if you prefer.”

In his bony hands, Hamner was holding the fine purple cover that was usually draped over the painting – not so much to protect the canvas but rather to protect any unsuspecting viewers from facing what at first glance appeared to be a rotting corpse but what was undoubtedly supposed to be a very much alive and extremely unpleasant-looking man.

Curwen’s lips curled in genteel disgust.

“He is of no use to me dead.”

Hamner shrugged.

“White once said, some people are just better off dead. Even if they happen to be useful.”

“Hm.”

What Curwen actually wanted to say was – some people are better off dead, _because_ that’s when they are finally useful. But Hamner just had to mention White, and Curwen was not inclined to agree with anything White said. All he knew about this White character was that they had more than a few screws loose, as well as a very wide range of interests - from sewing to hunting, or so he had gathered from Hamner’s vague-yet-frequent mentions of this strange person and their antiques.

“Cruel words, don’t you think?” Curwen did not look away from the painting when he asked his rhetorical question, but Hamner’s quiet reply almost made him glance at the young man.

“Oh, yes. Especially if they’re directed at you.”

Curwen was not sure if he wanted to meet White, not even under the best of circumstances. There was something rotten in this whole business, and he suspected that the rot started with them.

 ***

The staring contest between necromancer and painting, though not truly interrupted by the brief exchange of words between the two men, flared up anew. In the warm stillness of the empty shop, silence stretched like a lazy cat. Curwen glared at the canvas, the creature depicted there seemed to glare back at him, and Hamner tried to fold the purple cover without missing a proverbial blink from the weird battle of wills. For a while, the only sounds were Curwen’s arrhythmic breathing and Hamner’s occasional sniffle.

After ten minutes had trickled by, Hamner decided it was finally a good time to open his mouth.

“You know, Dorian Gray might not react well to anyone standing between him and his portrait.”

Curwen did not react of a long while. Eventually, he reached out to poke the painted nose of the monstrous figure depicted on the canvas. The tip of his long bony finger seemed to press against living skin – the surface was warm and soft to the touch.

“I will be severely disappointed if he does react well.” he murmured. "After all, his very _soul_ is in this painting.”

***

Hamner locked the door twice – an entirely symbolic action, considering how fragile the old mechanism was. Then he bid goodbye to Curwen, who nodded in response and left quickly.

Or so he led Hamner to believe. As soon as he heard Hamner move, Curwen slowed his step, then turned and headed back to the alley into which Hamner had just disappeared.

Literally.

Curwen only hesitated a little before taking his first couple of steps into the narrow space between the buildings. The air here was considerably colder than it was on the sunlit Aylesbury Street, the weird stench it carried – far more intense, albeit still unrecognizable. Not daring to go any further, Curwen tried to peer into the far end of the alley, but he saw nothing – only cobblestones and bricks and cobweb-like shadows that blurred…

Curwen blinked. He did not do that often.

Those were no shadows.

Those were cobwebs - thick as ropes and the color of blackened silver, they glistened ever so slightly, ever so wetly under whatever faint light could reach them in this tunnel-like place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! It's been... what, 8 months since the last update?


	13. Dorian Gray – a fragrant vagrant

**The Despicable Diaries of Damnable Dudes and Depraved Dames,**

**Or what happens when you resurrect a bunch of villains and creeps and throw them in a crossover universe of crack to fend for themselves**

**Chapter 11: Dorian Gray – a fragrant vagrant**

_[a careful sketch of Aylesbury Street, with a short description of most of the addresses]_

_NOTHING._

_[an angry-looking scribble, the pen has almost torn through the cheap paper]_

_[a white pigeon feather]_

_[a messy sketch of an unpleasant-looking man]_

Pâtisserie ‘Lovett’ was one of Arkham’s most popular cake shops– cozy and clean, its simple white exterior contrasted starkly with the sweet-scented variety of colors and shapes that filled its front windows and display cabinets. It began work at six in the morning, opened its door for customers at eight, and closed at six in the afternoon. The combination of good quality and fair prices, as well as the scheduled discounts (25% off after five in the afternoon, and 50% off on yesterday’s goods) had earned ‘Lovett’ the loyalty of many a customer, to the point where the owner, sixty-year-old Englishman Benjamin Lovett, liked to say that every new client was a future regular.

Unfortunately, even the most popular of small businesses had their slow days. Mr. Lovett had recently mounted a bell above the entrance, yet today it only rang twice – when Dorian opened the door so that the freshly mopped floor would dry faster, and when he closed it afterwards.

It was rather dull, not to mention borderline depressing, standing around all day and waiting for someone - anyone - to walk through the door, so they – meaning _maître_ _pâtissier_ Lovett and his employees and fellow Englishmen Henry Wotton and Dorian Gray - spent most of the afternoon doing small, almost meaningless chores, each armed against the inevitable boredom with bowls of almonds that needed slicing and piles of sugar that needed grinding into fine powder, as well as whatever desserts they felt like nibbling on while working. Naturally, it was not long before an additional delicacy found its way into their mouths, namely gossip.

The main subject of conversation was Mr. Lovett’s boss and Henry and Dorian’s benefactor – one Mrs. Helen Beaumont.

Dorian did not participate much in the conversation, except maybe with his ears, as he could not care less about Beaumont and her affairs, at least not right now. He had almonds to slice and fingers to mind, as well as a still missing portrait to worry about. Not that Henry, who would probably be happy to talk himself to death, was particularly interested in having Dorian’s attention – he was actually looking at Mr. Lovett as he chattered along in that inexplicably charming way of his.

“She’s gone away for a week.” Henry revealed as he got up to fetch another packet of sugar. “Two days ago, I went to her apartment – you know we three live in the same building, don’t you, Mr. Lovett?” Here he had to raise his voice to be heard from the back of the shop where the ingredients were kept. “Anyway, I went to her apartment to return a book I’d borrowed and she was in the middle of preparing the smallest suitcase I’ve ever seen. She mentioned that she has some business she needs to take care of in New York; I didn’t ask her to clarify, of course. But she did pack an astonishingly small suitcase.”

Mr. Lovett frowned slightly and ceased his chopping to add a new batch of almond slices to the designated jar.

“She has a cabaret in New York. As far as I know, it’s run by a retired opera singer – an American, at that.” He paused, considering something with a slight frown, though it was hard to tell with all those wrinkles. “I _think_ I can recall Mrs. Beaumont saying she’s an old friend, ‘just like me’ – whatever that’s supposed to mean with her.”

It is Henry’s turn to make a noticeable pause. Eventually he asked, in what Dorian thought was an uncharacteristically timid voice.

“And what would _you_ say it means with her?”

Mr. Lovett shrugged and said nothing, and for a moment Dorian thought he did not wish to discuss the matter any further, but his employer continued as he resumed his slicing, this time with almost as slow a pace as Dorian.

“I may be old, but I have never been a friend of hers.”

“Same here.” Dorian and Henry replied in almost perfect unison.

Dorian smirked. He could not help but remember Edward Hyde’s shocked face when he revealed to him (after a couple of drinks, of course) his real age – 38 years and counting. And Henry was ten years his senior, though of course he looked his age, even if he did not always act it.

Mr. Lovett did not react at their sort-of-confession to not actually liking their benefactor. In fact, he seemed to accept it as completely natural.

“I met her in a gin palace in London when I was eighteen. She was a bit younger than me, but much more experienced. Drank gin like water, ate men – and women, too - like lumps of sugar, and ran all over London like a mad horse. We at the palace used to call her ‘The Faeire Princess’…”

At this point Dorian decided to stop listening. The truth, the unspeakable truth was that at this moment he only thing he could – should! - think about was his portrait – his hateful, fateful portrait which he was yet to find, despite having information that it was somewhere in Arkham. He even had a street name, for Heaven’s sake! And yet, all the walking and stalking he had done along Aylesbury Street during his free time had brought no results – none of the shops there sold paintings, and none of the shopkeepers he had spoken to knew anything about paintings being sold in their neighborhood.

“… pâtisserie and a cabaret, and last time we spoke business she mentioned wanting to have a boutique as well – in Boston, at that.”

***

The next day went much better, earnings-wise – two customers before noon, but they bought enough for six people, and another three in the early afternoon, not counting one Edward Hyde, who visited the cake shop twice a week to stock up on chocolate biscuits and tease Dorian. 

“Well don’t you look just fetching in that apron, Gray!”

“Kindly piss off.”

“And that little hat you have on, to cover your pretty hair – isn’t it just the veritable cherry on top!”

“I _said_ …”

***

By the time Hyde had left the building, Dorian was gripping the spatula as if it were a knife. Henry and Mr. Lovett were prudent enough not to chuckle, though Dorian was sure they had exchanged at least one meaningful look behind his back.

It was half past five and Mr. Lovett was trying to convince them to take some of the production home with them (“The apple tarts will be uneatable by tomorrow!”), when the door bell announced the arrival of one last visitor. It was a bespectacled young man with longish dark hair and clothes that betrayed an utter lack of taste. Dorian needed a couple of seconds to recognize him as Dr. Allen’s assistant and when he did, he practically lunged at him.

“Mr. Hamner, what a surprise!” he chirped, much to Henry’s astonishment – for Dorian much preferred to deal with the pastries, rather than with the people who bought them.

Hamner beamed at Dorian’s convincingly warm welcome, but Dorian noticed the way his eyes darted around the shop, not unlike a thief’s, taking note of Henry and Mr. Lovett. Their presence obviously didn’t sit well with Hamner, as his smile diminished at the sight of them; still, he greeted them politely before turning his attention back to Dorian.

“I was hoping to find you here.” Hamner did not try to shake hands with Dorian, for which the latter was grateful. “There is something we need to discuss, regarding your arrangement with Dr. Allen, and as soon as possible. Can I have a minute of you time?”

“Of course.” Dorian’s smile did not, could not falter. ”Perhaps even two.”

***

Exactly three minutes later Hamner wished everyone in the cake shop ‘pleasant remains of the day’ and walked out with empty hands and emptier pockets. Dorian, on the other hand, had just gained a genuine smile (or at the very least, a genuine reason to smile), as well as a veritable treasure map in the form of a (very cheap, downright handmade) calling card, which revealed the exact location of a certain shop on the already painfully familiar (to him, at least) Aylesbury Street. Dorian tried recalling what it was on this exact number (59), but as far as he could remember, it was just another drab building with yet another empty street-level shop.

Oh well. It was better than the nothing he had to make do with until now. At the very least, Dr. Allen was not going to be able to attend their meeting with the shopkeeper, as he was going to be away from Arkham for the next couple of weeks. Therefore, Hamner was going to represent him. Therefore, Hamner was effectively in charge of all arrangements regarding the purchase of a certain painting. Therefore, Dorian actually had a decent shot at (re)gaining said painting without it ever landing in Allen’s possession.

Dorian doubted he would be able to get one over on someone like Allen. Sure, the man would wheeze rather than speak properly, and his protruding bones were just begging to get broken, but few things had ever scared Dorian as much as this strange creature, with his cobweb-like skin and teeth that resembled misshapen salt crystals.

His assistant, on the other hand…

***

“As you already know, the shopkeeper – a very peculiar person, that one – refuses to sell the painting. Quite understandable, all things considered, and also quite frustrating. However, that was before we met _you_ , Mr. Gray.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Hamner?”

“We have offered the shopkeeper a most unusual bargain - the sight of the portrait in exchange for a glimpse of the model. He didn’t believe us at first, thought we were pulling his leg; but on Sunday we – that is to say, you and I – are going to march in that shop and watch his jaw drop.”

“So what you are saying is that…”

“He thinks that portrait is one of a kind – the last remaining trace of a great beauty that’s left his world forever. Proving him wrong would mean proving he doesn’t need the portrait anymore.”

“…”

“…”

“That is, how should I put it…”

“Very peculiar, I know.”

“Indeed!”   

“Anyway, he is currently out of town as well, and he will be back..."

"... on Sunday."

"Right, I already mentioned it... Perhaps we can meet in front of the shop at, say, 11?”

“Done.”

_By the time Sunday rolls around, I will indeed be done and gone, and neither of you will see this pretty face ever again, not if I have anything to say about it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian has a date... with DESTINY. 
> 
> He should consider bringing a crowbar.


End file.
